


The Corruption of Power

by Dragonanzar



Series: The Corruption of Power [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A lot - Freeform, BDSM elements - not a BDSM story, Collars, Dark Harry Potter, Dominance, Erotic thoughts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Mental Damage, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Sexual Submission, Plotting!Tom, Punishment by Magic, Rape/non-con not in main pairing, Slavery, because Tom doesn't technically have any choice, but they talk about it, master!harry, non-canon war, slave!Tom, some explicit content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 414,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24840736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonanzar/pseuds/Dragonanzar
Summary: Harry won the war, but the consequences of the method he used will have significant consequences for both him and Wizarding society. The decision of Lady Magic to enslave all those who fought with or for Voldemort, including the Dark Lord himself, may seem like poetic justice, but time will reveal whether the old adage is true: power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: The Corruption of Power [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796899
Comments: 438
Kudos: 468





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VoidRealmer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidRealmer/gifts).



> This is for Vickironica who has started a lovely Slave!Tom fic called Poetic Justice. Reading her fic made a plot idea which had just been a vague plot bunny turn into 27,000+ words :) If you haven't read that one, definitely do! The Last Resort by Atheraa is another inspiration and worth a read. I think mine has a different feel about it, but if you see some similarities, that's why! 
> 
> In terms of relationships, I love Harry/Tom pairings, but at this point can't see it happening in this fic, not with the setup I've used. This might change later if I can see a way to bring them together into a somewhat healthy relationship, but we'll see.
> 
> NB, as of Part 3, it's confirmed to be a Tomarry pairing :D
> 
> Also, as a warning, I am inclined to leave extremely long gaps between writing my stories (usually I simply don't post them until they're finished which has only happened once), so don't be surprised if that happens here. At this point, I have some ideas of events I'd like to include later down the line, but no idea of how to get to them. Any suggestions you'd like to give of where this story might go would be welcomed and might make me write faster!
> 
> Lastly, if you want to read the slave-owners guidebook they keep mentioning, I'll be uploading that as part of the same series for your delection and delight ;)
> 
> So, enjoy reading, and I'd love to know what you think!

The moment had finally arrived. In the midst of the battle, Harry had seen the snake die and that was his cue. Moving quickly through the combatants, spells flying everywhere, Harry made his way to the centre of the morass, towards his target. There was Voldemort, flinging green and red spells around like knuts. Before his enemy could see, and therefore cast a spell at him, he cast a _sonorous_ and spoke, imbuing his words with all the magic he could muster. Hopefully his friends would guard his back as they had agreed or this could be a _very_ short and messy final gamble.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” he boomed, his words momentarily making both enemy and friend alike pause. “I call on you to face judgement for your crimes. I beseech Lady Magic to hear my call and pray that she may judge if my cause is worthy.” There was a waiting silence like the world was holding its breath and then all Harry could see was white.

Everything was white. Everything. Even Harry himself – when he looked down, all he could see was more white. Then the white changed slightly, becoming more intense in one area and less in the rest of the place. The greater intensity grew until Harry felt like he needed to cover his eyes, but for some reason his arm wasn’t responding. Then it seemed to take a shape, but couldn’t seem to decide which shape. At one moment Harry was sure it looked like a unicorn, the next he was equally certain there were wings and a long tail. He gave up on trying to make sense of the shifting light when a voice entered his mind, not as if he was hearing with his ears, but as if the thoughts were directly inserted into his brain.

“Who calls on me for judgement?”

“I do, Lady Magic,” Harry replied without any doubt that this was indeed the being he had called upon.

“And do you understand the consequences if I should consider your accusations groundless?” Harry had done his research and was fully aware of what he was risking with this.

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Then on what grounds do you make your accusations?”

“On the grounds that Tom Marvolo Riddle, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort is torturing and killing those to whom you have given your gift of magic. He has a vendetta against those born of the magic-less and anyone who seeks to prevent him becoming ruler of Wizarding Britain. If left to his plans, he would destroy the British Wizarding world within a generation as he exterminated all but his most loyal supporters. He seeks to enslave all, binding us to him with chains of servitude unless we wish to die. He has even mutilated his own soul for the purpose of ensuring his immortality. We who have suffered under his reign, fought and died to prevent him, call out for justice.” Harry fell silent, the words which had seemed to be pulled from his soul dying out. There was a beat of silence and then the brightness flared.

“These are grave accusations, child of mine,” Her voice boomed forebodingly. “I call on Tom Marvolo Riddle to appear before me.” Just like that, Voldemort was there. No flash of light, no noise. Just one moment he wasn’t there, and the next he was. He looked around wildly and then spotted Harry.

“Potter!” he hissed, his eyes flaring with fury. “What have you done now, boy?!” Harry found himself unable to reply, his voice stolen in order to allow Lady Magic her space.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle, you have been summoned before me to face accusations most grave…and I can See immediately that at least some are true.” Suddenly, Voldemort seemed to recognise the most powerful being in the ‘room’. 

“What is this?” he hissed. “Who are you?” His voice had gone higher and his eyes widened as his nose holes flared. 

“Do you not recognise me, child of mine?” She asked, a hint of sadness in Her tone. 

“Fairy tales – superstitions for the weak-minded,” he declared, the faintest traces of fear appearing in his tone. 

“Why have you wreaked havoc on my children, Tom Marvolo Riddle?” Lady Magic asked, all sadness gone with steel as its replacement. A hint of cunning crept over Voldemort’s face.

“Vermin are to be exterminated with prejudice. Those coming from families without magic taint the Wizarding World and will destroy it.”

“You do not truly believe that,” There was no doubt in Her voice. “Tell the truth of your motivations,” She commanded. Voldemort seemed to trip over his words, what he had obviously intended to say being transformed into the truth - his look of horror as the words poured out was clear enough evidence. 

“As the strongest and most powerful wizard, I deserve to rule. Promising to exterminate the mudbloods gave me enough following within the ranks of the purebloods to build my power base and rise to ruler of the Wizarding world.” A look of fury covered his face and he lifted his wand to cast a spell but, to no one’s surprise but his, it failed. 

“I have heard enough,” Lady Magic declared, her voice ringing like a bell. “Harry Potter has summoned me to dispense justice. Deeming his accusations true and his motivations pure, I will do so. Tom Marvolo Riddle, as you have done and desired done, so shall it be done to you. You desired to enslave others and mould them to your will, and thus you shall be enslaved and moulded. Your followers followed you in greed for power and blood, and thus they shall follow you in punishment. Yet, you cannot face this punishment as a fragment. So I call on the parts of your soul that you have broken away to re-join and be whole.” With that pronouncement, the brightness all around increased in intensity as Voldemort began to scream. The light grew until it was physically painful, and then Harry knew no more. 

XXX

Voices. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, nor was sure why it mattered. Then he surfaced slightly more, and he began to recognise the familiar sound of Madame Pomfrey’s stern tones. Huh. Was he in the Hospital wing? But how could he be at Hogwarts? He had been at Grimmauld Place, hadn’t he? Or was it the tent? Then his memories filtered back and he recalled infiltrating Hogwarts to reclaim it from the Death Eaters, the desperate battle, and then the appearance of Voldemort which had tipped the fight against them. He remembered using the ritual Hermione had found, citing it as a last resort at the time due to its potentially severe consequences. But he was alive, so it must have worked…hadn’t it? 

Opening his eyes, he squinted against the brightness of the room which was confirmed to be the Hogwarts’ Hospital wing. Fortunately, he didn’t need glasses – they had got his eyes fixed the muggle way after one too many times of being half-blind in the middle of the battle and almost dying – so he was able to see that the place was almost empty. Not what he would have expected from a room dedicated to healing directly after a battle….

“Ah, Mr Potter! You’re awake.” The matron had noticed his eyes were open and quickly bustled over to start taking readings from him. “Everyone will be very relieved. It was a bit touch and go for a while with your magic levels – for a short time there we were worried you might wake up a squib!” Harry’s eyes went wide at the thought and he quickly cast _lumos_ wandlessly to make sure he still could. His heart slowed from its sudden pounding when the light shone from his index finger tip as usual. 

“Madame, you almost gave me a heart attack!” he gasped, only half-joking. She tutted.

“Well, you gave the rest of us more than one in the last few days due to that little escapade of yours, so I’d say it’s justified.” Harry frowned, one part of her response catching his attention.

“Few days?“ Madame Pomfrey paused her spell-casting to look at him steadily.

“Yes, Mr Potter. You’ve been unconscious for almost two weeks now.” Two weeks?! He’d never been unconscious for that long before! 

“W-what happened?” he asked. She raised an eyebrow at him and put her hands on her hips.

“Complete magical exhaustion is what happened, Mr Potter. Whatever stunt you did that won the battle, and the war with it, also drained every drop of magic out of your body. When I said you’ve given us a few heart attacks over the last few days, I meant it. We weren’t even certain you would survive for the first twenty-four hours, and then when your magic didn’t start returning, we thought the experience had damaged your channels irreparably. Then it began returning two days ago, so we decided you would probably be alright.” She gave him a rare smile as she returned to her work. “I think your usual luck may have played its part.” Harry sighed.

“Yes, I know – the bad luck to get into the situation, but the good luck to get out of it with minimal trauma,” he groused. He was silent for a few moments to get his thoughts together. “What happened while I was…unconscious?” Madame Pomfrey paused once more, hesitating. 

“I’ll…let the Minister explain that.” And that wasn’t ominous at all. Starting to worry slightly, his thoughts showing him one possibility after another – Moody and Bill’s training in worst case scenarios being rather unhelpful for once – he waited for the mediwitch to finish her work. Upon doing so and pronouncing him well enough to have visitors, she opened the doors to the Hospital wing. 

This was revealed to be the source of the voices he had heard while surfacing. A whole crowd of people were clustered outside and Harry had the sneaky suspicion they were waiting for him…a suspicion which was confirmed when all of them started shouting and gesticulating as soon as they saw he was awake and sitting up. 

Fortunately, Madame Pomfrey was as stern and foreboding as usual, only allowing three familiar faces through. 

Ron and Hermione were two of them, of course, and Harry felt a wave of relief crash through him at the continued presence of his friends. He was soon wrapped in a Hermione-hug and the recipient of Ron’s friendly, though somewhat too exuberant back-pats. 

“Didn’t I tell you he’d get through this, Hermione? Didn’t I tell you!” Harry’s red-headed friend said with unconcealed relief in his voice. Hermione, on the other hand, clearly wasn’t listening to a word.

“I thought we’d lost you,” she whisper-sobbed in his ear. “Trying that stupid, stupid ritual I found.”

“It’s OK,” Harry murmured, at a loss as he shared a look with his best male friend. Ron mouthed at him ‘mad, I tell you’ and Harry grinned. The war hadn’t taken everything away from them, then. 

By the time Hermione was pulling away, wiping at her eyes and snuggling into Ron for a sideways hug, Harry had realised who the third person was in the room.

“Kingsley?” he said with slight surprise. Not exactly the person he might have expected to see. Though, apart from Ron and Hermione, he wasn’t sure who he would otherwise have expected. The man nodded at him in acknowledgement.

“Harry, feeling better, I see.” The green-eyed man smiled wryly.

“Given that I’ve been _unconscious_ , I haven’t exactly been feeling anything much.” The man grinned back, though the troubled look in his eyes didn’t go. 

“I suppose not. Mr Potter...Harry…What do you remember last?” Harry paused, examining him carefully. 

“I cast the Ritual of Justice,” he said slowly. Kingsley looked at him intently.

“And what can you remember of your experience after casting the ritual?” Harry sighed and then gave a quick account of meeting Lady Magic, the ‘trial’ and the judgement. His listeners, Madame Pomfrey included, listened carefully without interrupting. When he finished, Kingsley leant back in his visitor’s chair. 

“Hmm, well that explains a few things. It looks like the Unspeakables were right…” he trailed off as his gaze went distant. 

“Kingsley?” Harry asked to prompt him. 

“Hmm? Oh. Yes, I suppose you don’t know about what happened after the battle. Unless Madame Pomfrey…?” he trailed off again and the woman shook her head. 

“No, Minister. I told him you’d inform him about what happened.” Harry’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Minister? Minister for Magic?” The dark-skinned man looked slightly embarrassed. 

“Well, there wasn’t much choice. What with most of the department heads either having been killed, fled or…well, incapacitated, I was the highest ranked member of the Auror department still around and, apart from Arthur, the highest ranked in the Ministry, full stop! In fact, I am _interim_ Minister for the next six months – just enough time to start sorting out this mess and organise a proper election. Though that’s going to be a mess in and of itself with, well, with everything that’s happened.”

“Which is _what_ , Kingsley?” Harry asked, his tone slightly sharp at the man’s frequent evasions. His erstwhile mentor eyed him and the sighed.

“The consequence of your Ritual of Justice has been…wide-ranging. Everyone, and yes, I mean everyone who followed Voldemort has been affected, marked or not. And that…is a significantly bigger number than anyone expected.”

“Kingsley!” Harry half-shouted in his exasperation. “Would you just spit it out?! What. Happened?”

“They were enslaved,” the man finally said bluntly, looking Harry directly in the eye. Ron and Hermione were like statues on one side of him.

“…What?” Harry asked, sure he had misheard.

“From what we can tell, everyone who ever supported Voldemort’s actions was struck unconscious at the same time, healed and then woke up with a collar around their necks. Including Voldemort.” Harry swallowed dryly at the thought. 

“He-he can’t have been happy at that,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice level as his mind ran through scenarios with Voldemort waking up with a collar around his neck, each one resulting in more bloody situations than the last. Kingsley grinned wryly at him, but this time Harry saw an unfamiliar emotion lighting his eyes.

“No, he wasn’t.” Harry frowned. It didn’t look like Kingsley was mourning more dead, but then…

“What happened?” he asked. 

“It was bloody brilliant, mate!” Ron broke in, seemingly unable to keep it back. “The bloody tosser couldn’t cast a thing! Heck, as soon as he tried, he ended up screaming in pain and collapsing to the ground and blacking out.”

“Ron!” Hermione scolded. “I know it’s Voldemort we’re talking about, but even so, it’s not nice to revel in someone’s pain.” 

“Indeed,” Kingsley said dryly, taking control of the conversation back. “That was the first clue. The second was when none of the Death Eaters were able to leave the building. We were all a bit flummoxed for a while – no one really knew what to do. The Death Eaters couldn’t attack anyone, not magically and not physically – they learnt quickly that trying was a quick way to suffer debilitating pain until it drove them unconscious. Next, more people started arriving, more people with collars around their necks. They started popping into the hall. At first we thought it was another invasion, but it became clear that they hadn’t come by their own volition.”

“Yeah, one guy arrived in the nude, covered in soap suds,” Ron broke in again, ignoring Kingsley’s mock-glare. Harry had to grin at the image created.

“As I was saying,” the interim Minister emphasised, “those were the first clues that something strange was happening. So we got the Unspeakables in. It was them that recognised the collars, or at least the magic in the collars. Slavery…well, it isn’t practised in the Wizarding world now, well, the British Wizarding world at least -”

“Except for house elves,” interjected Hermione, fixing Kingsley with a familiar gimlet stare. 

“- on humans,” the man clarified. “But it used to be. It’s not so long ago that convicted criminals were sentenced to a number of years of slavery, rather than prison time. From your tale, it looks like Lady Magic has decided to revive the punishment.” Harry thought about it. It was pretty horrifying to be sure…but how was this any different from prison? In fact, wouldn’t the Death Eaters be better off in a home than in a dementor-infested prison?

“Why did the law change?” he asked quietly. Kingsley raised an eyebrow.

“Not the question I thought you’d ask. In short, it was seen as…kinder.”

“With the dementors?” Harry asked in disbelief. Kingsley shrugged.

“When I say slavery, I mean it. Not indentured servitude which this might otherwise be similar to. While under sentence, there are only two limits to the master’s power – he or she must not kill the slave and there must be no physical damage done that would impede the slave’s mobility permanently. Everything else goes.” Harry took a moment to think about that and suddenly felt sick. His short life had been all too filled with the knowledge of what people would do to each other given half a chance – the atrocities he had encountered over the past two years on the run a large part of his understanding.

“How-how long?” he asked with a dry mouth. Kingsley looked at him in confusion. “How long are the sentences?” he clarified.

“Ah. Well, that changes from person to person. There is a number on each collar which the Unspeakables have suggested are the length of the sentence. From various evidence…it appears to be the length of time spent as a loyal supporter. Bellatrix, for example, has 38 written on her collar, commonly believed to mean 38 years. Severus, however, has a number 2.” Harry jerked bolt upright.

“Snape’s been affected? But he was on our side!” Although the man had killed Dumbledore at the end of Harry’s sixth year, it had been revealed that he was a double agent three months before the final battle. In fact, his forced departure from Hogwarts had been one of the things that prompted the invasion – with him gone, it had been clear to see his effect on reining in the other Death Eaters. Without the headmaster in place, the brutality the students faced on a daily basis had sky-rocketed. 

“I know, Harry,” Kingsley replied, the regret clearly in his voice. “But evidently his time as a loyal supporter stands against him. I’ve decided to buy him ahead of the general auction in order to be sure he will be spared the brutality likely facing the other supporters during their sentences.”

“But, Kingsley,” Hermione started. “Can’t you just change those laws as Minister? Make sure the…slaves…have basic human rights at least?” The Minister shook his head.

“Unfortunately, the magic was enacted according to the old laws, the ones which haven’t changed since the eighteenth century. Plus, with the Ministry in the state it is thanks to the war, I’m not even sure we would be able to police it, even if we could change the laws.”

“But-“

“No, Hermione,” his tone wasn’t angry, but it was final. “Frankly, my efforts for the next few months are going to be solely aimed at rebuilding the society that _they_ have done their best to tear down. I do not have the time, nor do I really have the sympathy to invest energy in improving the lots of people who, in many cases, have ruined the lives of others, torturing, raping, and murdering.”

“What about those who didn’t take part in raids? Who gave information or helped the Ministry chase down muggleborns? Have they been spared or are they affected too?” Kingsley sighed and ran a hand over his bald head. 

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Most of those enslaved have been those who either took part in the raids or, like Umbridge, persecuted muggleborns under Voldemort’s direction. It’s not clear if those who were just…following orders…have been enslaved – we’re still processing them all.”

“You said _Umbridge_?” Harry asked with a certain amount of glee that Hermione smacked his shoulder for, though he could tell from the hint of a smile at the corner of her lips that she wasn’t all that displeased at the knowledge.

“Yes, sentenced for twenty years,” Kingsley confirmed. “Why, do you want to place a bid?” Harry made a face. 

“And spend more time with her? No thanks!” He continued more seriously. “A bid, Kingsley? You’re really selling them?” The man shrugged.

“Historically, that’s what happened. Well, historically, it wasn’t an open auction – the prices were set according to the number of years of sentence, but honestly? The Ministry needs the money. There is so much that needs to be rebuilt, or rethought. The years under Voldemort were just the tip of the iceberg – Fudge’s mixture of incompetence and corruption which flourished during the last decade and a half, due in no small part to Lucius Malfoy’s pockets, has caused major problems. If we don’t raise money with the sale of Voldemort’s supporters, we’d have to raise taxes a huge amount – and that would end up causing us more problems when the common people revolted. It seems rather…poetic justice that the ones who caused the problems raise the money to solve them.” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“If it’s all so dire, Kingsley, who will have the money to buy them?” The man grinned.

“This is the best part. I heard yesterday that the vaults of all those enslaved have been liquidated and paid out in part to the family, if the slave has dependant family members who were not also Voldemort supporters, and then to those the person had most affected. I asked Gringotts about it because Neville came to me saying he had had a huge sum paid out to him from the vaults of the Lestranges. So, in fact they might be bought by their own money!” 

Harry thought about the whole situation and in the end simply shrugged. In a way, Kingsley was right. In fact, taken in strictly logical terms, even if they threw all the… _slaves_ in Azkaban, it would cost money to pay for their care and guards. This way…well, in the end, it didn’t look like there was any way of changing what had happened. And Lady Magic had surely only directly punished those at fault – if the information about the vaults was true, She had even considered the families who might be left without their major bread-winner. In fact, as he thought about it, he realised how beneficial this would be to their society. 

If he had just killed Voldemort , succeeding in capturing the Death Eaters in the room perhaps, they would still have had to spend months working out who among the Ministry had been marked, let alone the general population or those who hadn’t been marked but who would continue spreading the poison of the Death Eaters’ beliefs. This…well, it had taken care of months of hard work. The idea of slavery was uneasy for Harry, to say the least, especially when considering what he had been fighting for. But when balanced against the other possibilities, it came off as the lesser evil, in Harry’s opinion. There was nothing saying he had to personally buy a slave, and he didn’t even intend to go to the auction, but standing by and letting it happen? Yes, he could do that. 

“So what now?” he asked Kingsley after gathering his thoughts. 

“Now? In terms of the Death Eaters? Or for us?” Harry shrugged.

“Either? Both?” He wasn’t sure himself what he was asking. Kingsley looked at him searchingly for a moment and then spoke.

“Well, for the Death Eaters, they are being interrogated to find out their crimes, in case there are names of people who haven’t been enslaved, but need surveillance. Then they will have some basic training in slave behaviour according to the 1786 guidebook – the most up to date version, if you’ll believe it. The auction is being arranged for three months from now, to give us some time to do all of this. For us? Well, for me, it’s back to the Ministry and work. For you…” He paused and then leaned in, his eyes intense. “Harry, I _strongly_ suggest you take some time to rest and recuperate. You and your friends have been fighting harder than any of us here in a war that should never have been yours. You’re still barely more than children, for Merlin’s sake. Rest, consider whether you want to finish your education and where you want to take your careers. Mourn those who have fallen. Regain a sense of normality.” He patted Harry’s leg, stood and walked towards the door. A few feet away from it, he paused and turned back.

“Though, Harry? You _will_ be getting an award which you’re not allowed to turn down…. And I would _really_ suggest you give at least one reporter an interview – they’ll all be hounding you otherwise, now that you’re the Man-Who-Conquered.” The clamouring of the people outside that rose as Kingsley opened the door covered the groan which Harry expelled. 

XXX

The next three months seemed to fly by in a haze of funerals, memorials and rebuilding. Harry couldn’t count the number of times he had cried as another classmate or order member was put to rest, nor the number of glasses he had raised to the dead. Of course, some families had already had their funerals before he had woken up – Harry didn’t blame them for not wanting to wait indefinitely for him to recover. For those, they had a big collative wake where everyone got completely drunk as they told stories about the fallen and about the war.

To distract himself from all of the sadness and gut-rending guilt, Harry threw himself into rebuilding Hogwarts. He relished the opportunity to spend time learning spells that rebuilt, rather than demolished; created, rather than destroyed. He helped with the physical clearing of rubble, the levitating into place of new stone blocks, the re-enchanting of areas that had been damaged or destroyed over the last two years. He had also helped to completely remodel the rooms where students had been tortured, leaving no remnant to remind those who had suffered. 

And then it was done, and Harry was left feeling adrift. 

What next?

It was the question he asked himself as he sat at a table in the pub, surrounded by Order members as they saluted Dedalus Diggle, Order member and victim of the Hogwarts Battle, for all that he’d only died a week ago – he had been sent into a coma by a spell during the battle, a coma from which he had never recovered. Harry hoped desperately that this would be the final memorial he would have to visit for a while. Surely…surely now they could have some peace? 

But to do what?

He could go back to Hogwarts. Minerva had offered a correspondence-style course for the ‘eighth-years’ where it was mostly self-study with a weekly tutorial session with each course tutor. It was supposed to allow them to start in a job and get their NEWTs at the same time. But Harry didn’t have a job. Sure, he had lots of options – Kingsley had already sent several pointed letters saying that the Aurors would welcome him, with or without NEWTs. Or failing that, he could take headship in almost any department he wanted. Minerva had offered him a post at Hogwarts teaching Defence, basing the offer on his experience teaching the DA. As for the flood of letters he’d had from a whole variety of people he didn’t know, offering him a job just so they could say they were employing the Man-Who-Conquered…well, the less said, the better in Harry’s opinion. But…none of them called to Harry. 

He’d had enough of hunting Dark Wizards, much as his skill set was suited to it. Head of a Ministry department was even more definitely a ‘no’ – he’d always had a wary relationship with the Ministry and didn’t see that changing, despite its new leadership. No, politics was not for him. As for teaching…maybe later. Right now, he’d feel as much a fraud as Lockhart. 

It wasn’t even as if he needed a job. Not only had he inherited enough from his parents to keep him comfortable for a good few years, but he’d also been the beneficiary of a large sum of money from the enslaved Death Eaters. From what the goblins had said, most of that was from Voldemort himself, but he’d also received bits from other Death Eaters like Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy. Sure, he’d had to pay almost half of what he received to the goblins in blood-money for the damage and destruction he’d caused while on the horcrux hunt, but it still left plenty for him to live off – it’s not like he lived lavishly, after all. 

No, Harry was lost. He let his gaze wander around the room. It alighted on one of his best friends who was listening to a story about the deceased. Hermione had gone into the Ministry, accepting Kingsley’s offer to run the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Being the usual over-achiever she was, she had taken the NEWTs as soon as the Ministry had started offering them again, and was now doing a part-time post-graduate degree with the International Magical University, by correspondence, of course.

As for Ron, he thought as he saw his other best friend, inevitably next to his girlfriend, the red-head had in a somewhat surprising turn of events decided to follow his elder brother’s footsteps and become a curse-breaker. It appeared that their time horcrux-searching had made a significant impression on him. Of course, his school history hadn’t been quite up to scratch, even notwithstanding the complicated last two years, at least one of which should have been spent at school, so he’d been scrambling during the last couple of months to try to catch up and get started with Arithmancy and Ancient Runes – apparently both courses were essential for curse-breaking… Harry wished him luck, while secretly envying that he knew what to do with his life.

Frankly, all Harry could say he was doing was renovating Grimmauld Place. Though, to be fair, that was a bit of a job all by itself – the years of being inhabited by a dark family and then neglected had not been kind to the building. Though he was quite proud that at least the ground floor was looking much more welcoming. He hadn’t even begun to tackle the garden though – he suspected he would have to get some expert advice on that. 

About to go over to Neville for the so said expert advice, his attention was caught by a conversation happening on a nearby table.

“Why didn’t you bring Severus along?” Arthur asked Kingsley. “He was as much a part of the Order as any of us.” He sounded accusing, though Harry wasn’t sure why. Kingsley sighed and ran a hand over his face.

“Would you want to come?” Kingsley asked in return. “Would you want to parade amongst those who hold you in respect, as a slave?” Oh. That was why. Arthur, however, still looked confused.

“But he knows we wouldn’t expect him to _behave_ like one, doesn’t he? I mean, you don’t expect him to do it at home…do you?” Having started off sounding completely convinced, Arthur ended up trailing off questioningly. Harry was rather interested in the answer himself, remembering that Kingsley had said he was going to take Snape to protect him. Kingsley just sighed again and let the silence linger for a moment between them before replying.

“It’s not as simple as that, Arthur. The collar is not just a simple symbol – it’s an active behaviour enforcer.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes. Now, ask yourself, would you want to come and be faced with the choice of either behaving like a slave or being in constant pain? I gave him the choice; he chose not to come. That and claiming him before the auction tomorrow was the best I could do for him.” There was silence for a few moments more and then the men resumed talking, but seemed to have mutually agreed to change the subject. 

Harry, however, tuned out as his thoughts took him towards the people who had caused all this pain and misery. Snape aside – in Harry’s opinion, he had already worked off his time as a Death Eater in the years spent as a spy, risking life and limb – he suddenly found himself glad for the punishment Lady Magic had levied. Sure, it was extreme, but as he sat here, surrounded by people who had spent the last three months mourning those who had died because of those bastard, those who were permanently scarred by the fighting…well, it only seemed right.

After all, look at what happened after the first war. Sure, some of the worst had gone to Azkaban, but rot like Malfoy had been left to fester and set up what had happened during the second war. This way…well, with any luck, when they were released from the punishment, they would be no danger to anyone. 

XXX

After that, Harry gave little mind to the Death Eaters turned slaves. At least, he didn’t until Kingsley asked him to come to the Ministry two weeks later.

“Harry,” Kingsley smiled, coming forward to shake his hand.

“Kingsley,” greeted Harry in return. “Don’t tell me you’re going to give me a job offer as an Auror again…” Kingsley shook his head.

“No, though it’s still there if you want it… Sure I can’t tempt you to become a department head?” he finished hopefully. Harry grinned wryly at him.

“The answer hasn’t changed since the last time.” The man shrugged.

“Too bad. We’re slowly filling up the empty spaces, but it’s difficult to find people we trust.” The man’s expression turned more serious. “No, we’ve had a different problem that, according to the Unspeakables, you may be involved in.”

“I swear I haven’t blown up anything recently,” Harry half-joked and got a half-smile in response. 

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,” Kingsley reassured him and Harry found something loosen in him, despite the slightly joking tone. He’d had far too many bad experiences in this building to be completely relaxed.   
The next moment, he was tense again, his wand flying into his hand as three figures entered the room, one far too familiar for his comfort.

“What is he doing here?!” Harry demanded, only sparing Kingsley the attention because he saw Voldemort was in chains. One of the Aurors escorting him in forcefully shoved him to his knees in front of Harry and Kingsley. The erstwhile Dark Lord’s head was lowered, but Harry caught a furious twist at the corner of his mouth revealing his feelings towards the treatment. Nevertheless, he stayed down and kept silent. 

Suddenly more curious than angry, Harry looked at the man who, until recently, had been his nemesis. He was significantly different. First, there wasn’t a sign of the serpentine man he had been in the Hogwarts Battle; instead Harry could have sworn it was an older Tom Riddle kneeling in front of him. So in that respect, he was looking a lot better. In all other ways, however, he was looking significantly worse. 

He was thin, very thin – his cheeks looked almost gaunt and his arms were almost as skeletal as they had been when stepping out of that cauldron all those years ago. He was dressed in a ragged tunic that did nothing to hide the bruising all over his skin. Another bruise darkened his cheekbone and his lip was split, most likely from the same blow. 

“What happened to him?” Harry asked, the question seeming to spill from his lips without permission. Kingsley paused for a moment, but then he answered.

“All the slaves have been going through a…training process. As you can see, he didn’t take well to it.” Harry snorted at the thought. No kidding. Though a remnant of a conversation he had overheard at Dedalus Diggle’s wake resurfaced.

“I thought the collars acted as behaviour controllers?” Kingsley look startled, as if he hadn’t expected Harry to know that. Harry didn’t bother to explain, just looking at the Minister expectantly. 

“They do, normally. As usual, it seems like Voldemort here doesn’t fit the norms. While all the other collars behaved as expected, his only prevents him from using his magic or trying to hurt people around him. It doesn’t make him obey orders.” That was rather alarming, but given that the man was still here and not outwardly fighting the Aurors, it looked like he was under control, at least for now.

“Do you know why?” Harry asked. Kingsley looked slightly shifty, but Harry didn’t notice as he was concentrating too much on Voldemort who had barely moved a muscle since he had been pushed into the position. 

“Well…it took a while for the Unspeakables to come to a conclusion. In fact, we tried to sell him two weeks ago – when the ownership wasn’t passed over, it was a bit of an embarrassment for the Ministry. Lost us quite a bit of money too, you wouldn’t believe the amount he would have sold for-“ Harry looked sharply at the man. He was stalling, something straight-talking Kingsley wasn’t exactly well-known for. At his look, the Minister sighed again and closed his eyes for a moment. 

“In short, the Unspeakables found out that the reason his collar wasn’t responding to us, the reason he couldn’t be sold was because he already had a master.” Harry furrowed his brow. He didn’t understand and said so. “You’re his master, Harry,” Kingsley eventually said bluntly. 

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “But I never bought him, or whatever is needed to do to have a…slave.” Kingsley shrugged. 

“That’s what they say. But it’s easy to test.” He nodded at the kneeling man. “Give him an order, something he wouldn’t want to do.” Harry considered it. What was the harm? If it would disprove this ridiculous idea and let him go home, he would do it. 

“Fine. Voldemort, call me ‘master’,” he ordered, looking at the slave. After a beat of silence, he turned to Kingsley with a triumphant look. “See-“ he started saying when Voldemort made a sound of pain, almost a whimper. A moment later, a gritted-out ‘master’ emerged from his lips. Harry couldn’t have stopped his mouth from falling open if his life had depended on it! What…? But… He looked at Kingsley to see the man nodding grimly.

“It looks like the Unspeakables were right – you are his master.”

“But I don’t want to be! Isn’t there some way I can give him to you so he can be sold like the rest?”

“I-“ started Kingsley, but a roar of sound and bright white light cut him off. As the roar of sound faded and Harry clutched at his eyes, a voice slid into his mind.

“He is yours, young petitioner. Yours forever.”

“But I don’t want him!” cried Harry.

“Your soul and that of his were entwined by my sister, Fate, and I will not untangle it. He is yours until his death, which cannot be by your hand or your intention. Consider it the consequence of summoning me.”

“And if I die?” Harry asked, coming to the realisation that he wasn’t going to be able to fight this, not if Lady Magic had so decreed it. “Does he go free? Free to cause havoc and chaos once more?”

“No. For his crimes, he shall never be free again. Should you die, he will follow you in your last breath.” With that, the light dimmed and Harry found himself back in the Minister’s office, everyone looking rather concerned. For him, or about him, Harry wasn’t sure.

“Harry? Are you alright?” Kingsley asked carefully. Harry leant against the desk behind him and rubbed his still-painful eyes. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, looking up again. 

“What happened? You suddenly…started talking to thin air.” Harry chuckled grimly. Well, he supposed it made sense why they were all so concerned about him then. 

“Lady Magic had a message for me,” he said finally, not seeing any reason to lie. Absently, he noticed he had the full attention of everyone in the room. Even Voldemort was looking at him, calculation in his still-red eyes. “Looks like I’m stuck with him,” he waved at the man in question, “until the day one of us dies. And before you get any bright ideas,” he addressed Voldemort directly, “if I die, you die too.” The man lowered his head so his dirty fringe once more masked his expression. 

“So…you’re taking him?” Kingsley asked slowly, seeming to be a bit knocked by the strange events.

“Looks like it. Do I need to sign anything? Collect anything?” The Minister thought for a moment, then rifled around his desk.

“Here’s the ownership form you need to sign. We’ll keep a copy, you’ll keep a copy and it serves as proof of ownership should you need it. If you ever sell him, you and the new owner will need to come here to register the transfer of ownership.”

“Not that that’s ever going to happen,” said Harry gloomily as he skimmed through the form and then, once happy it was as the Minister had said, signed it. Kingsley frowned at him so he explained. “Lady Magic talked about that too. Seems like it’s going to be a one master, one slave kind of deal. Yay,” he finished with unenthusiastic jazz hands. 

“Oh,” replied Kingsley, a hit of pity in his eyes. “In that case…well, you’ll probably need this – it’s the 1786 slave behaviour guidebook. The collar is probably attuned to its rules so, while you can choose to do things differently, you’ll have to specify in every instance exactly how you want him to behave. Otherwise, from experience, I can tell you that the collar will enforce the guidebook’s rules to the letter.” Harry took it. He figured he’d look through it, if only to see what he was dealing with, but unless the rules were completely inhumane, he probably wouldn’t bother to change them – this was Voldemort they were talking about, after all. 

“Other than that, you can take him now.” He made a sign to the Aurors - one gave Harry the end of the chain attached to Voldemort’s collar that they had used to lead him into the room; the other gave him a key. “The key’s for his restraints. Because of who he is…or at least was, we suggest that you don’t bring him out into public unless he’s restrained. Not unless you are very certain that he will follow your commands.” Kingsley’s face echoed Harry’s inner doubt that he’d ever be able to bring Voldemort that much to heel. 

Feeling somewhat numb at all the surprises of that day, Harry said his goodbyes to Kingsley, nodded at the Aurors as a respectful goodbye. 

“Get up,” he ordered the kneeling man, a little surprised even through his numbness when Voldemort actually obeyed without saying anything. Then, using Kingsley’s floo, he grabbed Voldemort’s arm so they wouldn’t be separated as they whirled through its system. 

Arriving in his sitting room jerked him slightly out of the daze he had fallen into, though it felt strange to be there with Voldemort. And even stranger to be there with Voldemort as his slave. Stepping away slightly so he wasn’t almost touching the man, he pulled out the key the Auror had given him. Looking warily at Voldemort – and wasn’t it strange to think of the man as ‘Voldemort’ when he looked like Tom Riddle? – he hesitated. 

“If I undo your chains, are you going to attack me?” The man’s lips drew into a snarl. 

“It’s not like I could, _Potter_ ,” he spat out. A moment later, he screwed his eyes up tightly and his tendons stood out as he gritted his teeth shut. Harry just watched, half curious, half horrified as Tom…Voldemort resisted a bit longer before slumping to his knees, seemingly uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry!” he gasped out a moment later, then flinched. “I’m sorry, master,” he corrected himself, his eyes still screwed shut. Oookaaay. Harry wasn’t going to ask what that was about. He could probably guess anyway. 

“That wasn’t an answer,” he pointed out instead. “A simple yes or no would suffice.” Those crimson eyes opened and looked at him, lingering pain still showing in the white lines of tension at their corners. Tom looked away.

“No,” he muttered in reply, his tone weary. “Master,” he added on after a quick flinch. Deciding to take him at his word, and reassuring himself that his wand was easily accessible and the man in front of him wasn’t allowed to use his magic, Harry used the key to unlock the handcuffs binding the man’s hands behind his back and his feet together. The leash, however, seemed to just be clipped on to a ring at the front. Unclipping it, Harry paused as the number on a plaque at the front caught his attention. Or rather, the fact that it wasn’t a number made him look. Instead, it looked like a sideways 8. Harry could only assume that it was to do with the fact that Voldemort would be a slave for the rest of his life. 

Moving away, he collapsed into a chair and put the chains to one side. Sighing deeply, he ignored Tom for a moment and stared into the fire. How did he get himself into these situations? And, more importantly, what was he going to do now? Well, there was one thing he would get sorted out straight away.

“Look, I’m not calling you Voldemort, not with you looking like that,” he told the kneeling man bluntly.

“Then what would you call me? Master,” the man asked, his tone forcibly even. Harry thought about it, but there was really only one name that came to mind.

“Your real name – Tom.” Harry thought the small flinch he noticed pass over Tom’s features was probably less to do with the collar, and more because of how much he knew Tom hated his name. Which, Harry was not so proud to admit, was one of the reasons he’d chosen it. 

“As you wish,” the man replied, his dangerous tone belying the submissive nature of his words. Harry nodded, more as a confirmation of his own thoughts than in response to Tom’s words. Seems he’d have to make it very clear to his…slave…how things would be. Otherwise, the man would just walk over him, and he wasn’t prepared to allow that. Not again.

“Look, Tom, we’re stuck together, me with you as much as you with me. Merlin knows I’d rather not have to think about you at all!” he let out a bark of mirthless laughter. “But this is the way it is. Now, you’ve been a pain in my life since before I was _born_! You _won’t_ be one now.” He stared Tom directly in the eyes so the man could see his sincerity and then continued. “Be respectful, obey my orders and don’t offer any harm to anyone not trying to harm me, and we’ll manage. You don’t have to like it – I already know you won’t – but this is meant as punishment, so that doesn’t really bother me. You just have to do it.”

“And if I don’t, _master_?” Tom sneered, his eyes flashing. A moment later, the collar evidently punished him, if his small noises of pain were anything to go by. 

“Then you’ll face a lot of that for a start,” observed Harry. “And if that’s not enough to motivate you, consider the fact that I have complete control over your life. I don’t intend to withhold food or hurt you myself,” in fact, the thought made him feel a bit sick considering what had happened to him at the Dursleys – not that he would let Tom know about that, “but I will if I have to.”

“You’re too soft-hearted to do that, master,” Tom observed. He seemed to hold himself in readiness for pain, and when it didn’t come, a faint expression of relief crossed his face. Harry shrugged.

“I’m not naturally brutal, that’s true,” he admitted readily. “But the war made me do some things I would never have done before. If I can be brutal now, it’s entirely _your fault_ ,” he emphasised, pinning the older man with his gaze. When the other man looked away first, he knew he’d won that little battle of wills. No doubt it wouldn’t be the last, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it. Harry stood up abruptly.

“Come on – I’ll show you to your room.” He waited for Tom to climb to his feet, noticing how he swayed slightly. “When was the last time you ate?” The man clenched his teeth together and looked to the side. “Answer me,” ordered Harry in exasperation. It was a simple question, for Merlin’s sake! 

“Yesterday morning,” Tom answered, the words seemingly torn from him. 

“Right, well let’s go via the kitchen then, so you can have something small to eat before dinner.” Harry led the way and showed Tom the cupboards with food, the drawers with implements and the way the cooking surfaces worked. 

“Have you ever cooked for yourself?” he asked, pausing after the thought had occurred to him that maybe the Dark Lord had always had servants. Except for in the orphanage, of course, but he probably wouldn’t have cooked there either. Wonder of wonders, Tom didn’t fight him this time and just answered quietly.

“A long time ago.” Harry nodded in acknowledgement.

“Well, if you have any problems, you can just ask me. I figure we’ll take it in turns to make dinner. I’ll do tonight. Breakfast and lunch we’ll sort ourselves out, though if I’m already cooking something, I might offer to make you some too.”

“You’re not going to have me cooking and cleaning like a good little slave then, _master_?” Tom sneered, then winced as the collar punished him. Harry waited for it to finish and then replied in a mild tone.

“I don’t really see that as your area of expertise, do you?” Tom half-shrugged, but didn’t say anything more. Since it had been a somewhat rhetorical question, evidently the collar didn’t see his non-verbal response as a punishable offence. Harry _really_ needed to read that guidebook to see what he was working with. 

After they had both made something small to eat – nothing special; just sandwiches – Harry led Tom upstairs. There was only one place he could really put the man, since he had only recently started on the first floor rooms. 

“Here,” he directed, opening the door closest to the staircase. “You can sleep in here. It’s got an ensuite bathroom so you don’t need to share with me. There’s soap and we can get you some shampoo tomorrow. My bedroom’s down the hall. Don’t go in without permission. If you need to get my attention, knock on the door and wait for me to respond. Clear?” 

“Yes,” Tom responded. “Master,” he added on a beat later. Harry eyed him for a moment, wondering if he’d forgotten anything. His eyes caught on the bruising and the ragged tunic. He could do something about that, at least. 

“Wait here,” he instructed the man, disappearing into his bedroom. He reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a small glass jar, a loose shirt and pair of sweatpants draped over his arm. “Here,” he said, shoving the items at Tom. The older man took them with a hint of bemusement. Harry shrugged. “The jar is bruise balm. I thought you might like to get rid of those,” he waved at the livid marks covering Tom’s arms and what he could see of his shoulders. “I don’t have any clothes your size, but these will do until we go to the shops tomorrow.” He turned to go downstairs but threw a final instruction over his shoulder. “You probably want to shower, maybe have a nap. Dinner’s at seven – I expect to see you in the dining room. Don’t break anything, OK?” Without waiting for a response, he went downstairs to the sofa room, determined on reading that guidebook.

XXX

Voldemort, or rather _Tom_ as he had been so unceremoniously renamed by his master, watched as Potter walked down the steps. He winced as a shiver of pain ran down his spine. Apparently he couldn’t even call his master ‘Potter’ in his _thoughts_ without the damn thing reacting. Sighing once the boy was out of sight, he turned towards his ‘room’. 

The day had been full of surprises, most of them bad, so he was glad that at least this one was decent – his sleeping arrangements from here on out seemed to be significantly better than those he’d had to get used to at the Ministry. A private room with a bed and ensuite bathroom, however small or uncomfortable it might eventually turn out to be, was far superior to sleeping on a cold floor with no privacy from the bars separating the different cells. 

He pushed the door further open and stepped inside. He was pleasantly surprised to find a room decorated in a neutral colour scheme rather than violent red and gold as he might have expected from it being the house of a Gryffindor. It wasn’t huge, but still a reasonable size with enough space to move around the double-sized bed without feeling cramped. There was even a desk in one corner of the room and a door to what Voldemort supposed was the bathroom on the wall to the right, opposite the bed. He dumped the clothes he had been given and moved to the bathroom with the bruise balm. That had been another pleasant surprise. With the hostility the boy had shown him so far, he wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d just been left to let them heal on their own, as had been the case for the last however many months. 

Stripping off the raggedy tunic that was all he was wearing, he dropped it in the corner with disgust. With critical eyes, he inspected his appearance in the mirror. His first impression was disgust. He was ridiculously thin – back to what he’d been like after a summer on wartime rations at the orphanage. The ugly bruises that painted a picture of victimhood over the canvas of his pale skin were another unwelcome feature, but those at least were soon to be gone. Pot-the boy had no doubt thought that they were from the guards. Some of them certainly had been, but a good portion had been from once-followers taking advantage of his being as helpless as they to get their revenge for their enslavement. Apparently the standing order to not hurt people didn’t apply to other slaves… 

The few followers who had stayed loyal – Bellatrix namely – had helped protect him at first, but once they got separated for their interrogations and then ‘training’ he had been forced to defend himself, to more or less success depending on how many ganged up against him, of course. Their guards had seemed to enjoy watching the in-fighting, only getting involved when it started getting serious. 

Voldemort ran his hands over his face and through his dirty and matted hair. His eyes took on a hint of calculation as he considered the possible advantages of his change. With the other slaves it had been a disadvantage – he had lost any factor of intimidation which might otherwise have helped. Here though…Pot-the boy obviously had recognised him even in this guise, so he had to conclude that Dumbledore, curse his soul, had shown the boy some memories of him in earlier years. Know thine enemy, and all that. But there probably wasn’t the same animosity attached to this appearance as his more serpentine one. Maybe that could be an advantage – looking more human might evoke more sympathy and thus fewer restrictions…perhaps even that damnable name was in the end a good thing? If the boy called him ‘Voldemort’, he would be constantly reminded of his enemy, the one who had killed his parents and threatened him for years. Tom, however…

His mind made up, _Tom_ , decided that for now, at least, Lord Voldemort should be…retired. Stepping into the shower, he ran the water until it was nice and hot and then stepped into the spray. Ah…heaven! He hadn’t had a nice hot shower in _far_ too long. The last time was before the…the Battle – in the Ministry prison, they were lucky to get a _cold_ shower, let alone a hot one. 

Using the soap, he scrubbed away at the ingrained dirt in his skin, though tried to avoid pushing on his bruises too much. He would be glad when they were gone – the constant low-level of pain was…irritating. Much like the collar, really. Though, he found it interesting that a constant ache he hadn’t even been aware of had disappeared as soon as he entered the room with…his master. He clenched his fists and his teeth for the nth time since The Event. A furious scream lurked behind his teeth, longing to be set free but, as always, he choked it down. Unlike the Ministry where letting it loose would have brought the guards on him, this time it would be P-the boy who came, and despite himself, Tom was reluctant to have that happen. 

It was just too…disconcerting. Until today his collar had been mostly inactive, except when he had tried to hurt the guards or use his magic to hurt or control others. Other attempts to use magic had just failed, but hadn’t caused pain. No, he’d experienced plenty of pain over the last few weeks, but very little of it from the collar after the first week or so. For the other slaves it hadn’t been so. When they had disobeyed an order, they had clearly felt pain. In fact, once Tom had realised that there was no way out of either the collar or the place where they had been kept, he had taken some amusement in causing those who had betrayed him to accidentally disobey orders and suffer the punishment. Now, feeling it for himself he, well, he didn’t _regret_ it, but he understood why they hadn’t liked it when it happened at least. 

But there was something more disturbing than the pain itself. With sufficient applications of pain, anyone could be broken; Tom knew that all too well. The pain of the collar could also be compared to the Cruciatus – not because it was necessarily intense, but because it was constant. The pain of a broken arm, the pain of a whip weal, the pain of a bruise…all those dulled over time: the human mind became used to it and it lost some of its effect. The Cruciatus was unforgivable for one particular reason, and it wasn’t simply because it could bypass most magical shields; it was because every moment of pain under Cruciatus was as excruciating as the previous.* The magic of the curse made it so that the human brain couldn’t become used to the pain. It was because of this that it drove its victims insane – because the brain couldn’t use its normal coping mechanisms, it retreated into itself, disconnecting from reality. 

The collar was the same. If Tom tried to hurt someone or cast damaging magic, he was hit by a fireball of pain so intense that he was unable to think past it, to even breathe, every moment of it as bad, or worse, than the previous. The blackness of unconsciousness followed swiftly after. And that’s what he had avoided the last few weeks, even while he had defied the guards where possible in his refusal to submit to their lesser pain. Now, however…. When he defied his _master_ , the initial pulse of pain was nasty, but not overwhelming. The subsequent pulses, however, grew more and more intense until he submitted to it. He could see how the pain alone could mould an obedient pet, a terrified cur that would do anything to avoid further punishment. 

But it wasn’t the pain that Tom feared. It was the _pleasure_. Because after submitting, as painful as the punishment had been, the wave of pleasure was just as great. It even occurred when he hadn’t been punished. He had experimented a bit since arriving at the house – when he answered a question in good time and respectfully, when he used ‘master’ without being prompted…he felt pleasure. And that…that he had no defences against. Who had defences against pleasure? No one. The human brain was designed to remould itself according to signals of pleasure, to chase the hits of dopamine. Why else would so many humans, both wizard and muggle, be addicted to substances, experiences, magic? 

And he didn’t see a way around it. Either he behaved in the way the collar would like him to do so, and he felt doses of pleasure that would eventually turn him into a…an obedient slave, happy in his confinement, or he fought against it, kicked against the traces and was punished for it…and then rewarded when he eventually submitted with the same result. 

So, what was he to do? He switched off the shower and stepped out, reaching for a towel to dry himself. He refused to go quietly into the night, allowing the feedback system to turn him, inevitably, into a needy pet. But that meant that he had to break free of the collar. And to break free of the collar, he had to maintain his sanity. And _that_ meant he had to avoid exposing himself to the feedback system for as long as possible at all times. He looked in the mirror and traced the symbol of eternity that had taken the place of a number. As Potter said…as _the boy_ said, he corrected his thoughts as pain lanced into him, they were stuck together until one of them died. And then apparently, if it was the boy, Tom would die too. 

Perhaps he could turn this to an advantage. The others had a finite sentence, true, but there was no guarantee they would be with the same master for the whole of it. Any progress they might make in manipulating their masters could be wiped away in an instant if the master decided to sell them. Tom, however…Perhaps here was another advantage to becoming ‘Tom’ again. 

Voldemort had been a blunt instrument – subtlety discarded once he had reached a position of power where he didn’t _need_ it. For all that he was a Slytherin through and through, subtlety had never come as easily to him as plain intimidation, though he was certainly capable of it, as could be seen from his time at Hogwarts. As Tom, a penniless, suspected muggleborn orphan in Slytherin, it had taken a long time before he could use intimidation to achieve his goals. In the meantime, he had had to build his position with subtlety. Perfecting a mask of geniality and kindness, he had become liked by the vast majority of the school’s population; even his hostile house-mates had had to give into his charm and charisma eventually. 

Maybe it was necessary to go back to that since intimidation was _clearly_ not going to work here – it had had a limited effect on P-the boy when Voldemort had been at his height of power; now as a bound _slave_ , it would have no effect, and trying would just expose him to more of the pain-pleasure feedback. 

No, what he needed was the time and freedom to research the magic of this collar – he had never encountered a spell or enchantment that didn’t have a counter. This would surely be the same. So, he needed to do some research – to find a way to eliminate the pleasure-pain feedback at least. To do that, he had to be trusted or ignored sufficiently to be able to use the Black library – what luck it was that of all places, he had been confined here with a library that was reputed to be one of the most extensive Dark libraries in the country. Plus, the longer he stayed away from the boy, the longer he could avoid situations where he was forced to encounter the feedback system. 

So, how to accomplish these goals? Certainly not by being outwardly defiant. That would just earn punishments and more scrutiny, if not a whole load of make-work tasks to keep him ‘busy’. But if he just suddenly ‘submitted’, the boy would no doubt be suspicious. That meant it would have to be a delicate balancing act – a slow movement from defiance to ‘submission’ in a way that seemed natural. And of course, all the while he would have to keep his sanity…somehow. And hope that his master wouldn’t want to keep him close anyway, to further punish him, though Tom thought this unlikely. Based on what he had observed so far, out of sight, out of mind was likely to be the order of the day, which suited him fine. 

“ _Tempus_ ,” Tom muttered absently, expecting the time to appear over his hand. When the spell fizzled out fruitlessly, he felt a surge of anger and bitterness once again. Damn this stupid- he cut his thoughts off. Anger and bitterness would serve to keep him motivated, but if he let them out at the wrong moment, he might completely destroy any progress he had made and risk his ultimate freedom. 

Pushing down the feelings, he used his occlumency to create a sense of calm in his mind. Then, slipping on the clothes lying on the bed, he went downstairs. Without knowing the time, he didn’t want to risk being late for dinner. 

XXX

Harry rubbed his eyes as he came to the end of the guidebook. The best thing he could say about it was that it was mercifully short. With only five sections, he had been able to read it in less than half an hour.

As it said on the cover, it was a guidebook to owning a slave according to the 1786 standards of slave behaviour. It seemed like, as Kingsley had said when Harry had first woken up, Lady Magic hadn’t invented anything new; She had just imposed the ritual of enslavement which hadn’t been used as a punishment since 1854. It seemed a long time ago to Harry, but given how long wizards could live, it seemed likely that there were still one or two wizards or witches alive in Britain who had known of or even come into contact with the slaves of that time.

The guidebook had explained how the collars functioned. Apparently they were at least semi-sentient and interpreted the slave’s actions and intentions, giving rewards for good behaviour and punishment for bad. Apparently this could even extend to _thoughts_. If the slave thought about crossing one of the basic rules, he or she would experience a taste of the punishment which would ensue if he or she followed through. As the guide had so helpfully explained, the collar’s function was to make life easier for the master. Instead of having to monitor the slave’s behaviour, the master could simply give a command and the collar would ensure it was followed. And as for the basic standards of behaviour outlined in the guidebook, the master didn’t even need to command the slave to follow them – they were hardwired in. Over time, slaves would naturally gravitate towards actions that earned them rewards and away from actions that lead to punishment. Et voilà – a perfectly trained slave without the master raising a finger. 

Of course, the guide had emphasised that the master should be active in the discipline of slaves, so regardless of the guidebook rules, if the master clearly stated that he wished his slave to behave differently, the collar would take note. Having looked through the rules which were hard-wired in, Harry had cringed slightly inside at some of them, but most of the time he didn’t care enough about them to take the trouble to specify something different. The rule about the slave only eating or drinking with permission from the master, however… yeah, he’d be changing that. He forgot to feed _himself_ half the time, and there was a reason the only pets he’d ever had were owls who could take care of themselves. 

That said, it did make him wonder how Voldemort…Tom…had been surviving the past few months. Though, Tom had said he had eaten the previous day…maybe the collar hadn’t been active until Harry became aware of his claim? That was the only explanation Harry could think of. 

The suggested punishments at the back of the book had _definitely_ made him cringe. It was clear that the guidebook had been written by someone who didn’t even see the slaves as _human_. Harry would certainly not be following their suggestions, and hated to think of what Hermione would do to him if he did! Especially the one about nightmares, Merlin! Harry was starting to realise why Kingsley had said that Azkaban was _kinder_ , dementors and all…

He put the book down and sighed, stretching muscles that had got a bit stiff from sitting still for a while. Something caught his eye and he jumped up, whirling around with his wand leaping to his hand. Tom was standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorpost with his arms folded, staring at Harry with a strange look in his red eyes. His heart pounding, Harry felt a wave of anger at the man for sneaking up on him. A thought occurred which made him inwardly smirk. He pointed at the guidebook.

“That says you’re supposed to kneel when entering the presence of your master,” he stated neutrally, wondering what the other man would do, half-hoping he would defy the rule and be punished as a small revenge for startling Harry. To his surprise, the man didn’t resist, but slid to his knees, the small flash of anger in his eyes and the way he refused to dip his head the only signs that he was unhappy about the action. 

“Anything else, master?” Tom murmured, his voice deceptively mild. Harry felt a bit disconcerted and decided to sit down again. 

“Have you read this?” he asked, picking up the guidebook.

“No. Master.” 

“Do you know the contents?”

“Not having read it, no,” Tom replied, slightly snidely. He clearly paid for a moment later if the slight wince was anything to go by. “No, master,” he amended shortly after, his tone much more respectful. Harry observed his reactions with interest. Clearly the collar was pretty strict… Well, at least he knew what to do next, then.

“Here.” He tossed the book at Tom. The other man caught it, though fumbled slightly in his surprise. Harry stood up. “Read that while I make dinner. I’ll be amending a couple of those rules slightly, but at least if you know the contents, we’ll at least be working from the same guidebook. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” He walked out of the room, though paused just before he exited. “By the way, you’re allowed to use the furniture in this house for their designated purposes, as long as you don’t damage it purposefully. I’m sure you’ll be grateful not to sit on the floor all the time.” The last he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm as he was certain that Tom wouldn’t be grateful in the slightest. 

As he prepared dinner, he thought over all the information he had just learned and considered what he would say to Tom when he came through. He decided that they could talk after dinner just as he started plating the spaghetti bolognaise. Putting the food on the table, he called for Tom to come. The man appeared in the doorway a few moments later. He hesitated as he saw the table set for two and Harry already sitting down behind one plate, then sat in the other place. He waited, though Harry could see him eyeing the food hungrily. Hmm, so he was following the rules, was he?

“You can eat,” Harry told him quietly, beginning to dig into his own food. “We’ll talk after the meal.” Tom looked at him for a heartbeat, and Harry couldn’t decipher the look in it, then started digging in as well.

They ate in silence, both devouring their food. Harry had missed lunch earlier because he had been cleaning out a room on the first floor and had got pretty engrossed. Without Kreacher around anymore to remind him to eat, he kept forgetting as soon as he got into an activity. Tom, on the other hand, had apparently barely eaten in the last couple of days, so Harry couldn’t blame him for being hungry. 

When they had both finished, Harry waved his wand to send the dishes to the sink. With a couple more applications of household magic, the dishes were washing, drying and putting themselves away. Honestly, it had been the best idea he’d ever had to ask Molly about household charms – his intention had been to distract her from Fred’s death, but they had turned out to be really useful. He still cooked by hand, though – not used yet to all the cooking spells she had demonstrated for him. She still gave him a lesson every time he went round with a couple more spells he might need. 

“Come on,” he told the older man, leading the way back to the sitting room. Relaxing into his usual armchair, he watched to see what Tom would do next. The man hesitated for a moment, but then stepped a bit closer and sank to his knees. He didn’t lower his eyes, though, allowing Harry to see the smouldering defiance that still burned in them. If Harry was honest, however, he had to admit that he was glad for that, regardless of what the book said – if the man had pretended to be completely submissive, he would have known that there was a plot being concocted. As it was, he suspected that Tom was biding his time, waiting for an opportunity, rather than outright plotting.

Well, Harry had at least some faith that the ex-Dark Lord wouldn’t leave him to die if he could do anything to help it, given that his life was tied to his enemy’s. And he was relatively confident that the man couldn’t hurt him because of the magic of the collar. So, while he was confined to the house, Harry didn’t think his slave could cause too much trouble. 

He realised he had been sitting there for more than a few moments, just staring blankly at the man kneeling before him. Tom’s hands were balled into fists and he had maintained eye contact, the defiance turning into anger as time wore on. It was as if he couldn’t stand potentially losing that little battle of wills. At that moment Harry really couldn’t be bothered, so he blinked and pointedly looked towards the fire, clearing his throat.

“So, you’ve read the book?” When the man didn’t respond, he looked back and raised his eyebrows in expectation.

“Yes, master,” Tom responded, his tone slightly disrespectful, but clearly on the right side of the line for the collar not to punish him. Harry nodded in acknowledgement.

“Right. Well, I’m not going to change most of those rules. Frankly, I think you deserve a bit of humble-pie after everything you did and all the pain you caused.” Hearing his tone start to rise, he reined back his anger and continued a moment later. “Anyway. So, I’m going to change the rules that I can’t live with. First, food and water…” He paused for a moment, watching Tom’s reaction. When he found a hit of trepidation passing across the man’s face, he felt a bit of satisfaction…which was immediately followed by a bit of guilt. After his experience with the Dursleys, a part of himself – probably the part of him called ‘Hermione’ – was disgusted at himself for letting someone believe, even for a moment, that he would deny them the basics without cause. And frankly, to hell with what the book said – a bowl of gruel every day was _not_ enough to do more than keep someone from starvation. Pushing both feelings aside, he rushed on. “I’m not going to tell you when you can eat or drink. If you’re hungry, go and make yourself something. If you’re thirsty, go drink some water from the tap. You’re allowed any food in the cupboards, as long as I don’t tell you differently. You are not allowed any alcohol. Is that clear?” he asked, staring into those crimson eyes.

“Yes, master,” the man replied with the same borderline disrespectful tone as before. Harry couldn’t really care less – if _Voldemort_ had started speaking to him with _respect_ , when it wasn’t forced, he’d leave the room straight away and go to St Mungo’s to get checked out for potions or spells immediately. Then he reminded himself that this wasn’t Voldemort anymore. Without his magic, without his Death Eaters, with Harry’s every command enforced by magic, there was little of the fearsome Dark Lord left. 

“Good. I do expect for us to have dinner together every day, so don’t eat a big meal directly before. You are also forbidden to drink any potions without permission. If you are injured or sick for some reason, come and tell me. I won’t leave you to suffer…if you haven’t displeased me,” he added on spitefully. “That also applies to any accidents or incidents that you cause. Come tell me about it – I won’t punish you if it was truly an accident, but if I found out you hid it, I _definitely_ will. And just to add to that,” he leaned forward and his gaze bore into Tom’s red eyes leaving no doubt that he meant his next words. “Do. Not. Lie. To me.” He paused until he saw the acknowledgement in his slave’s gaze. Satisfied, he sat back again. “I know you’re going to plot, and I know you’re going to try to turn things your way. But if you ever intentionally lie to me, _I will make you suffer_. And if you think I don’t know how to do that, you haven’t been paying enough attention in the last two years.”

Tom looked away and Harry saw that his balled hands had started to shake slightly. He wasn’t sure whether it was from anger or fear, or a mixture of the two, but the dark beast inside him, which had been fed well in the years of war, was satisfied. 

“Next, furniture. As I said earlier, you’re allowed to use it.”

“Then, may I sit in a chair, _master?_ ” the man asked, his tone belying the submissive words. Harry pretended to think it over.

“Not right now. I think that when we have serious discussions like this one, we should make it clear exactly who’s the master and who’s the slave here.” There was a faint noise like a scoff. 

“I didn’t realise that was your kink, _master_ ,” Tom said snidely. He then winced as the collar punished him, having evidently crossed the line that the collar judged between allowable and disrespectful. “I’m sorry for my disrespect, master,” he said hurriedly, his tone a lot more respectful. Evidently that did the trick as the lines on his forehead smoothed themselves out. 

“It’s not,” Harry answered finally, pushing away the part of himself that might be enjoying the sight of Tom Riddle on his knees in front of him a little too much. “But it seems…just…for you to suffer what you put your Death Eaters through. Not to mention everyone else. After all,” he continued, the anger rising once more, “wasn’t it you who once forced me to bow? Bow to death, wasn’t it?” his tone would have sounded idle if not for the undercurrent of past fury. “Well, death, how does it feel now you’re forced to bow before someone you hate?” 

Those hands were balled into fists once more and Tom had lowered his head. Harry suspected it was more to hide the hatred that was no doubt lighting his eyes rather than because of any sort of remorse or submission. Harry didn’t push it – knowing that the man who had tried to victimise him, who had victimised so many, was completely at his mercy, bar the limit on killing him, was enough to allow his emotions to abate. He took a couple more deep breaths before leaning back in his chair. 

“In your free time, you’re allowed to read, but only novels. If you want to read an information text, bring it to me first for my permission. Clear?” He waited until a resentful acknowledgement was given before continuing. “But you may not have much of that anyway. This house has been left neglected for years. I’ve been trying to renovate it, and that will probably be my task for a good few months. You’ll help me with that, and in the meantime, you can keep the house which has been renovated so far clean.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to have me cooking and cleaning?” Tom said, somewhat accusingly. “Master,” he added on quickly. Harry shrugged. The book had suggested giving slaves lots of work to avoid them becoming problematic. Of course, the way the book had phrased it made them sound more like a dog or cat, but Harry agreed with the sentiment – giving Tom lots of time to think was definitely a bad idea.

“I said I didn’t think it was your area of expertise, not that you wouldn’t be doing it. Cooking, like I said, we’ll take turns with dinner and sort ourselves out the rest of the time. Cleaning…well, I don’t like doing it, and since both house elves I had died as a result of your Death Eaters, it just seems right for you to take their place.” His tone was mild, but the emotions swirling inside him were not. The memory of Dobby as he took the knife in his chest that was meant for Harry….The memory of coming back to Grimmauld Place after the war ended, having avoided it since they had seen Death Eaters lurking nearby, only to find Kreacher’s mangled, long-dead corpse in the hallway…. He pushed the thoughts aside. He had mourned for both of them, and dwelling on their deaths would do no one good – he had learned that the hard way. 

“For now, I don’t expect to have guests around, but if I do, you’re to behave respectfully and keep out of the way as much as possible. I trust that won’t be too difficult for you.” His tone and gaze warned Tom that it better not. “Hmm, what else? I don’t expect you to wait on me hand and foot – in fact, I think we’ll both get on better if you stay out of my way as much as possible too. If I want you, I’ll call you or send a patronus. Then, I expect you to come as quickly as possible, as long as you don’t put yourself or anyone else in danger.” 

He considered the other rules for a moment. “Also, the rule about not speaking without permission…as long as you speak to me or anyone else in this house respectfully, I don’t see the need to restrict your ability to speak. Don’t test me too much, though,” he warned, knowing that the man would definitely do some testing. Harry thought through what he’d said and what he’d intended to say. He couldn’t think of anthing else. “Any questions?” 

“What about my…magic, master?” Harry eyed him, his lazy look belying the tension that had sprung into existence at the question.

“What about it?”

“Will I be able to use it? Perhaps for this cleaning you require me to do?” Tom’s tone was very polite and Harry trusted it far less than the borderline disrespectful tone he had used earlier – as much as a snake about to strike, in fact. 

“No,” he responded unequivocally. “Right now, you are not allowed to use any magic, for any reason. Do you understand?” Tom’s fists were balled so tightly, the tendons stood out whitely. 

“But why, master?” he asked, clearly fighting his rage to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

“Because my word is your law and I cannot trust you with it,” Harry told him firmly, watching him carefully. If ever he would lose control and try to attack, this would be the moment. Tom clearly battled with his urge to wring Harry’s neck or something else equally violent, but apart from a few twitches caused by the collar’s warning that he was about to break one of the cardinal rules, he managed to keep his temper. Harry decided to dangle a carrot in front of him as a reward for his restraint. “If you manage to follow the rules and prove to me that I can trust you even the slightest bit, I will give you access to enough magic to help you clean.”   
He figured that along with the possibility of reading non-fiction books would be enough to motivate Tom to play along, if the collar’s reward –whatever the book had meant – wasn’t enough. After all, a cornered rat was the most dangerous – regardless of how little threat Tom seemed to pose to Harry at the moment, if he ever started hating his life enough not to want to live it…well, Harry couldn’t trust that he would be safe if that ever occurred.

“Any other questions?” he asked, a little impatient to have this over with. It hadn’t exactly been fun after all. Tom thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Good. Then I’m going to sit here and relax. You go do whatever you want, as long as you don’t get into trouble. I expect you to be here and ready to go shopping at nine tomorrow morning.” He saw Tom open his mouth as if he wished to speak, but hesitate. “Yes?” he asked with a hint of exasperation. Couldn’t they be finished this conversation already? 

“Master…how can I tell the time?” Harry frowned. What kind of question was that? Use a clock for Merlin’s sake. He opened his mouth to tell Tom that sarcastically, then paused. Was there actually a clock in that room? Or in any room, for that matter? He always used Tempus to tell the time, had got it down to a wandless spell, in fact, so hadn’t really noticed. Actually, the only clock he knew was in the house was the one here in the sitting room. 

“I’ll wake you at half past eight,” he said after a moment of thought. “We’ll add getting you a watch to tomorrow’s shopping list.” 

“Thank you, master,” responded Tom, and for once, it actually sounded genuine. Discomforted by Voldemort… _Tom_ thanking him, Harry waved it off absently. Summoning the book about charms that he had to read before starting his courses at Hogwarts again, he signalled that the conversation was over. A few moments later, he was aware of Tom standing and walking out of the room without a word. Good riddance.

XXX

Tom walked through the corridors of his new home with a split focus. Partially, he was determined to learn the layout of this place he would be inhabiting for the foreseeable future. The other part of him was musing over the ‘conversation’ they had just had. He had learnt a lot, perhaps more than the boy had thought he had. He was tired from a day that had been far too full of surprises and pain, but his mind was racing far too much to let him sleep.

First, the collar. Thanks to reading that guidebook, he had a much better understanding of what exactly he was expected to do, which would be invaluable in avoiding punishment and the ensuing pleasure. It had had another, unexpected, effect: now he realised why the guards had never told the prisonners the rules, but had let them discover them by being punished when they had inadvertently broken them. It seemed that if he followed a rule without being told to, either by his _master_ or the collar, he would receive a dose of pleasure, but it was significantly less than if he had been previously punished for it or ordered to do it. It seemed slightly counter intuitive on the face of it – if the greatest doses of pleasure were after punishment or being ordered, what benefit was there in being obedient and perceptive? 

  
But that was the deviousness of it – the pleasure after pain would addict the slave to submission, and then the small dribbles of other pleasure would send the slave chasing after what they could get, by inviting orders and essentially, becoming eager to please because they were desperate for that dose of addiction while also trying to avoid the pain. And of course, the master had the ability to give a reward through the collar, no doubt as overwhelming pleasure as the punishment word would cause overwhelming pain. At least, that’s what Tom had interpreted from the guidebook. Having already felt some small tastes of pleasure, he could feel how seductive it was. Perhaps in some cases it would backfire – Voldemort was certain that it would in Bellatrix’s case because he knew she had been a masochist for decades – but in most cases, it would work remarkably well.

Ultimately, he didn’t know if the guards had actually know about this functionality, or whether they had been following their own training guide, but given what he had seen of the other slaves at the end of their ‘training’ period, the devious combination of pleasure and pain had at least half-broken most of them. But because Tom now knew about it, he could steer his course on the path of least resistance. By knowing and following the rules without explicit command or punishment, he could avoid as much of the feedback system as possible. While to others that might seem semantic since he would have to be equally submissive to his master’s desires either way, to Tom it made the world of difference. He would always choose the route where he had the greatest control over his actions.

The second important thing he had learned was that the boy wasn’t as ‘light’ as he had thought. Tom had imagined that rules such as requiring him to kneel in the presence of his master or being forbidden to use any of his master’s belongings without his permission would have been immediately waived. But they hadn’t. And his attempt to sting the boy into letting him shift out of the submissive position had backfired – he had underestimated the amount of resentment and anger held against him. So, he would need to take that into account in his movements. Unfortunately, it seemed like he’d have to invite at least some pain in order to satisfy the darkness inside the boy. Otherwise, it was likely the boy would force it, either consciously or unconsciously, and again, Tom would rather the choice be in his hands that those of his _master_. 

It was…irritating that the boy had forbidden him from reading anything other than novels. He would have to test that – technically history books could be considered stories, after all, so maybe…Well, he would try at the first opportunity. If it was a no go at the moment, at least he hadn’t been forbidden to read his master’s books full stop, as would have been the case according to the guidebook. His mind was already absently ticking over plans to get the information he would need.  
As for the cleaning…he shouldn’t really have expected anything else. If the roles had been reversed, Voldemort would have tortured and humiliated his rival as much as possible, while keeping him alive as a symbol of the Light’s failure and his superiority. He had to admit that doing a bit of cleaning by hand was better than that, though only a bit. And the boy hadn’t said that he would never have access to his magic; in fact, he had opened the door slightly to the possibility of Tom using magic for cleaning. It surely wouldn’t take too much to move from there to giving him access to his magic under supervision and then freely. All, of course, if Tom managed to ‘prove’ to the boy that he was ‘trustworthy’. 

How he was going to do that…he was sure he would have some ideas later, even if he was a bit lacking in them now. In the meantime, he would watch, he would wait, he would obey, and he would endure. Eventually, his time would come, and then…and then, Lord Voldemort would rise again.

Satisfaction at his plan suffusing him, Tom felt his tiredness creep up on him, the energy having left him during his walk. He headed back to his room and lay down on the bed, enjoying the softness of the mattress and covers as much as he had enjoyed the taste of the food earlier. Unconscious came swiftly to claim him. The last thought he remembered having was also filled with satisfaction at a theory having been proven true – throughout his plotting, the collar had remained docile thereby proving that it couldn’t read his intentions as long as they didn’t break any rules on the face of them. He could work with that.

XXX

Tom slept deeply, and woke disorientated. Memories of being woken by the lash of a curse cast from the doorway brought him to wakefulness too quickly. He curled up in a ball and raised his arm in protection against the next hit, but it didn’t come. Opening his eyes carefully, he saw in the dim light cast by the street light outside that the door was closed. Then, realising he was actually on a bed rather than on the cold floor of a cell in the Ministry’s basement, the memories of the previous day came back. He groaned, rubbing his face with a hand. Oh yes. Let operation Walking the Tightrope begin…

Not knowing the time, but certain he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he stood up. Not having taken off his clothes to go to bed – habit from being in the Ministry’s care still with him – he was immediately ready to leave. Now the question remained whether he could. The door hadn’t automatically locked when he had entered the room last night, but he wouldn’t be surprised if his master had locked it on his own way to bed. Certainly, Voldemort would never have left an enemy in an unlocked the room, but the boy had done many things that Voldemort wouldn’t have done, so Tom decided to try the handle anyway.

It was unlocked. Tom found himself caught between incredulity and relief. Was the boy honestly so trustful in the powers of the collar that he didn’t even take basic precautions? He stepped out of the door. Everything was dark and quiet in the way that said it was still far too early. Given that it was summer, Tom would guess it was somewhere between three and five in the morning. It certainly felt like that. At least he had probably gone to bed early enough to still get enough sleep, though he was sure he would have slept longer if not for the memory waking him with a shot of adrenaline. 

Well, there was nothing for it but to distract himself somehow. He headed towards the library which he had found while walking the corridors. It was only when he got there that he realised the problem: he had no way of actually reading the books. Sure, he had got here well enough with the light let in from the street outside, but the dim shadowy landscape was only enough to show him that there _were_ books, not what they said. He highly doubted that the muggle-hating Blacks had installed electricity, were it even possible in such a thoroughly wizarding home, and without his magic he couldn’t cast a _lumos_. 

Snarling in frustration, he thought carefully. Maybe there were candles or torches somewhere? Perhaps in the parlour or kitchen? The fire would probably still be burning in the parlour, at least, so if he managed to find a book he could read, he should be able to do so there without straining his eyes too much.   
Walking down the stairs as quietly as he could, he first entered the kitchen and searched through the various cupboards and drawers. Nothing. Grumbling to himself, he went to the parlour instead and started looking through the various cupboards. Again. Nothing. Then he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard a voice behind him.

“What are you doing?” He whirled around, his hand extending automatically as if holding a wand. He registered that his master was standing in the doorway looking sleepy and grumpy a moment before a small shock of pain reminded him there was something he was supposed to be doing. Grimacing, he allowed his hand to drop and went to his knees, glaring a hole in the floor as a small dose of pleasure hit him in reward. 

“Master,” he muttered with the border-line defiance – by this point he had figured out where the line was between outright defiance and submission, and hopefully by treading it carefully, it would help to allay the boy’s eventual suspicions. 

“No, seriously. What are you doing? It’s just past four am.”

“I was looking for a candle,” Tom replied. “Master,” he added on just before the collar would have punished him. There was a beat of silence.

“ _Why_ were you looking for a candle?” the boy sounded incredulous. Tom wondered whether he had believed his enemy was up to no good and was now trying to work out how a candle featured into that. No doubt the exercise was overly straining his pitiful mind. He winced as pain shivered down his spine at his mental disrespect towards his master. 

“Because I can’t cast a _lumos_ ,” he answered the question, knowing full well that wasn’t what the boy meant, but taking some pleasure in being difficult. He heard the boy breathe in deeply.

“Tom,” he started and the tone of his voice warned the man that perhaps he was pushing his luck a bit. “It’s a magic-forsaken time in the morning, and you’re down here waking me up by triggering my wards to look for a _candle_ , because you can’t cast a _lumos_. Why, in Merlin’s name, can’t you just _sleep_?! That is what the night is meant for, you know! So, I will ask _one more time_ before I punish you for lying to me. What. Are. You. Doing?” Tom looked up at the boy in outrage, opening his mouth to object that he hadn’t _lied_ , but his master cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Yes, I know, you probably weren’t outright lying. But you can’t say you weren’t being intentionally obstructionist. And I won’t tolerate that from you.” He stared into Tom’s gaze intently and the kneeling man could see the depths of his annoyance. He flicked his gaze away to look back at the floor. Maybe…maybe this was not the best time for defiance. Being woken up in the very early morning clearly hadn’t improved the boy’s temper.

“Master,” he started, figuring that might help soothe the boy’s irritation, “I couldn’t sleep. I knew it was early, but not the time. I was just looking for a book to read to pass the time. But without being able to use magic to cast a light, I couldn’t choose a novel from the library.” There was another moment of silence.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” As much as the question itself made Tom grit his teeth, disinclined to reveal weaknesses to enemies, the smoothing out of his master’s tone made the nervous ball in his stomach relax slightly.

“Nightmares,” he muttered finally. 

“Of what?” Now the boy sounded curious. No doubt for his own satisfaction at the bringing low of his nemesis. The thought rankled and before Tom considered his response carefully, he was staring into those hated emerald orbs and retorting with anger.

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter. Hasn’t your incessant curiosity killed enough of your family?” The moment the words left his lips, he wished desperately that he could take them back. Referring to his plan a few years ago to lure the boy to the Ministry, resulting in the previous owner of this house’s death was sure to be a bad idea. Then, his thoughts were completely scrambled as pain overtook his mind. 

He was dimly aware of the sound of sobbing and of his fingers scrabbling at the stone around him and then at his own flesh as if to find something to stop the pain or at least to make it bearable. A long moment later, it was gone, the twitching of his over-wrought muscles and the furrows his nails had carved in his own flesh the only sign it had been there. Tom realised he was prostrate in front of his master, his forehead resting on the floor, his hands now limp against it, next to his head. A few breaths later, he found the strength to sit up. Now, _that_ was the equivalent of the Cruciatus Curse. He looked up at the boy and his breath caught in his throat as he took in the look in those shadowed emerald eyes. The dark beast was out, and the collar’s torture hadn’t been enough to sate it. 

“You do _not_ get to talk about my friends or family,” his master said, his tone low and vicious. Intent coalesced in his eyes and Tom’s eyes widened as he realised what was about to happen.

“Please, master! Please, no!” he begged as his master’s lips formed the dreaded word.

“ _Punire_.” Then, pain was all that filled his world once more.   
It seemed to last for an eternity. An eternity of suffering with no respite, not even the possibility of unconsciousness to rescue him. It was the worst pain he had ever felt. 

Then it ended. Tom was left collapsed once more on the floor. He was breathing heavily, sobbing, open-mouthed pants that condensed on the cold wooden floor beneath him. Inadvertent tears had made his cheeks wet and stung in the furrows he’d caused with his nails. His muscles twitched and trembled in aftershocks and fatigue. He felt too weak to even lift his head. 

“Go to bed, Tom,” his master ordered him, the tone in his voice undecipherable. Then footsteps sounded as he left the room. 

His desperate breaths slowing, Tom tried to sit up, to even lift his head, but he felt too weak. He gave up, deciding to spend the night on the floor, but the collar wouldn’t even let him do that. As soon as he had decided to disobey his master’s order, it shocked him once more, drawing a whimper from his lips despite the low intensity – after the ordeal he had just endured, his mind and body simply couldn’t take any more pain right then. So, with no other choice, he kept trying, eventually able to push himself to a kneeling position. Then, with the help of a nearby chair, he managed to leverage himself up to his feet. Using the available furniture and then the wall to help support him, he climbed back to his room on shaky legs that threatened to give up at any moment. 

Finally, he got to his destination and was able to collapse on his bed. He was sweaty and his cheeks were striped with tears and blood, but he simply couldn’t face a shower or even going to wash his face. Instead, he fell back into a dreamless sleep, his exhaustion from the torture managing to do what he hadn’t been able to earlier. 

XXX

Harry woke when his wand started vibrating from the alarm he had cast the previous night. He groaned and rubbed his face with a hand. Why…? Oh. Now he remembered why he’d set it – he had to go shopping with his unwelcome houseguest. Who he had tortured only a few hours ago. Merlin.

Guilt clawed at his insides. He’d really done it, hadn’t he? Used the punishment function of the collar that, when he’d read the guidebook such a _long_ time ago, he’d decided he wouldn’t need. Tortured a helpless man, a helpless _kneeling_ man. Made the collar punish him until he couldn’t even sit up. 

It was just…when Tom had referred to Sirius’ death…well, Harry had seen red. Literally. In that moment, he had seen Voldemort’s red eyes, the eyes of the creature who had killed his parents, who had led the men and women who had almost destroyed the Wizarding world, taking so many of Harry’s friends and family with them. And the beast had risen inside him.

He almost wished he could blame the horcrux inside him for his more violent tendencies, the rage and hatred that had driven him to torture Death Eaters in the past for information, or simply in revenge for the horrors they had committed. But he was pretty sure that Lady Magic had restored Voldemort’s soul to remake him as Tom Riddle once more, so that meant he couldn’t use the horcrux as an explanation. 

No, Harry just had to face the fact that there was a very dark part of him that yearned to destroy those who had hurt his friends and family. Destroy them so they couldn’t do it again. But was that a valid reason in this case? 

Tom could never be Lord Voldemort again – he would be Harry’s slave until one of them died. Voldemort was already destroyed – everything else seemed somewhat petty in comparison. But when he made nasty comments like that….But you did ask him about his nightmares, a little voice reminded him. He could be touchy about his own nightmares, and certainly wouldn’t have reacted well if Tom had asked him about them, especially if the man had just been asking from prurient curiosity, the way Harry had been. 

Groaning, Harry wondered if he actually owed the other man an apology. Because, on one hand, torture, but on the other, Voldemort. How many more times had Voldemort tortured someone rather than being tortured? Unfortunately, Harry had a sneaky suspicion that that kind of karmic measurement didn’t exist, and wouldn’t actually make him feel better even if it did. 

For now, he decided that he would see what the man was like, and then go from there. He would try to keep more of a leash on his temper – the collar’s punishment alone seemed enough; no need to add to it unless the transgression was really severe. And he wouldn’t be mentioning all of this to Hermione. Definitely not. 

Getting out of bed, he had a quick shower and then headed down the corridor to Tom’s door. He hesitated for a moment before knocking, then told himself he was being ridiculous and did it. The door swung open a moment later and Tom knelt with his head bent in the space where he had obviously been waiting to be summoned. Summoned. Harry mentally winced at the thought. Then he spotted some red on Tom’s face, much as it was hidden by his hair, and winced again. He reached out towards Tom. The man flinched. It was small, but with Harry watching as closely as he was, it was clear. Biting his lip, guilt flaring in his gut again, he continued his movement to lift Tom’s chin. 

Sure enough, although the man had clearly washed his face since…the incident, there were scabbed red furrows in his cheeks from where he had clawed at himself in the midst of pain. Moving slowly, Harry brought his wand out and cast a light healing spell – enough to close the wounds and leave them only as thin red lines. Better. About to apologise, Harry caught Tom’s gaze and paused. 

There was fear there, definitely, and it made the guilt in Harry’s gut squirm a bit more. But what had stopped him from apologising was the other emotion. Respect. Harry frowned, searching Tom’s face more deeply, but all the indications told him that his first instinct had been correct. Huh. It figured that Voldemort…Tom would be the kind of person to only respect someone once they had shown their strength. And to Tom, strength wasn’t in self-sacrifice or endurance like it was for Harry; it was in the victimisation of others. It followed that if Harry apologised, Tom would probably see that as a weakness. So, maybe he wouldn’t be apologising. But that didn’t mean he had to be a brute. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, trying to keep the guilt he felt out of his voice. He wasn’t sure how well he had succeeded. 

“A bit sore, master,” Tom replied, his tone also showing a hint more of respect in comparison to the previous day. “But well enough,” he added. Harry wasn’t sure if the last bit was to reassure him or a kind of manipulation…probably the latter more than the former, but he decided to ignore it for now. The thought that Tom was back to trying to manipulate was surprisingly reassuring – it proved he hadn’t broken the man. Letting go of Tom’s chin, he leant back to stand properly upright.

“Come on, then. We’ll have some breakfast and then go out.” He headed down to the kitchen and they both got themselves something to eat. Apart from a few comments and questions passed between them which were directly related to the food, they were silent. It was pretty tense, but the longer they managed to go without a problem, the more Harry noticed Tom’s shoulders relaxing. Deciding to ignore it for now, Harry considered what he needed to take with him on their shopping trip. 

He fetched his wallet and a couple of bags for the actual shopping – he could use the plastic bags from the shop, of course, but these ones were charmed to be lighter and less bulky. Then, thoughtfully looking at Tom, he went to get a scarf.

“Here,” he said, throwing it at the man. Tom looked quizzically at him.

“We’re going into muggle London, so you’ll need to hide that collar of yours,” Harry explained. Tom made an expression of distaste.

“Can’t we go to Diagon Alley? Master,” he asked, disgust in his voice. Then he seemed to flinch slightly, an expression of wariness flashing across his face. Harry ignored it. 

“Why, would you prefer to walk among wizards and witches who know you’re a _slave_?” he asked pointedly in return. When Tom grimaced and looked away, he got his answer. “Besides, we’re just going to some local shops. A short walk will do us both good.” Tom just wrapped the scarf around his neck so the collar was hidden. 

When they were both ready, including a pair of transfigured shoes for Tom’s bare feet, they headed towards the front door. Opening the door, Harry stepped out and off the doorstep. A moment later, he heard a hiss of pain. Looking back, he saw Tom lingering in the doorway.

“Well? Come on, then,” Harry commanded briskly. Tom gingerly crossed the threshold with one foot, but as soon as he put any weight on it, he winced and withdrew. Harry frowned. What…? Oh. Yes, he had read that in the guidebook. Slaves were bound within the wards of any building they were taken to by their masters. To leave the building, they had to be in contact with their masters or their masters had to touch their collars. Then they would be bound to a small radius around their masters. If Harry remembered it correctly, it was about ten metres away.

Harry walked back to the house and reached towards Tom’s neck. Ignoring the slight flinch, he slid his hand under the scarf so he was in contact with the collar.

“OK, let’s go,” he said, twisting to face forwards. This time when Tom stepped out, there was no reaction from the collar. Harry heard him breathe a small sigh of relief. He let go of the collar and continued striding forwards without a backwards glance. The sound of footsteps told him what he had known would happen.   
They walked past the park and then through a few streets before they arrived at the shop Harry wanted to visit. Heading directly towards the door, Harry heard the intake of air by the man behind him.

“Master, surely not!” Harry smiled slightly. Go figure – Tom Riddle, who had always wanted to be unique and different, disapproved of his destination.

“Come now, Tom,” he said, the slightest bit of amusement in his voice. “As we get your clothes here, you can feel happy that the money spent is going to a good cause: alleviating world poverty!” 

“But master,” and why exactly did the Dark Lord sound like a whinging teenager? “They’re…second hand.” Harry stopped and turned around to look him in the eye, drawing close to speak to him quietly but intensely. 

“Tom, first of all, I’m sure both of us have worn clothes in significantly worse condition than barely-worn, second-hand clothing sold in one of the most expensive areas of London. Second of all, I buy my muggle clothes from here – they’re perfectly decent.” For the next bit, he lost all jocularity from his voice and both tone and look communicated his seriousness. “Third of all, and perhaps most importantly, you’re a _slave_. You read that guidebook last night as much as I did. You know that if I chose to, I would be perfectly entitled to have you walk around in a pillowcase like a house elf, or even nothing at all. So, stop complaining.” By the end, Tom had dropped his eyes to the pavement.

“Yes, master,” he acknowledge, sounding grumpy, but subdued. Harry wondered how much of that was the lingering effects from earlier that morning and how much was Tom finally realising his new position in society.

“Right then,” Harry said, turning to go into the Oxfam charity shop, his own mood sobered a bit too – he still hadn’t quite come to terms with his _own_ feelings about this slavery business, but he knew that allowing Tom even the slightest leeway would come around to bite him. Inside, he pointed out the various areas – shirts, trousers, jackets, shoes. “Go pick out five or six sets of shirts and trousers. Make sure you remember what you’ll be doing and that you choose suitable clothes for it. Get a couple of jackets too – at least one for warmth and one for rain. If you see any decent shoes, pick out a pair. We’ll go elsewhere for underwear.” Harry was pretty sure he saw a look of relief cross Tom’s face at the last comment and Harry smirked slightly to himself. He then went to browse the shirts – if he was going to start looking for jobs soon, he ought to have some decent clothes. He would have to head to Diagon Alley too for robes…but that was later. And without Tom. Definitely.

A few minutes later, Tom returned with five pairs of trousers. Harry took one look at two of the pairs and immediately shook his head. Tom glared at him defiantly.

“Why not?” he asked resentfully. “Master,” he quickly added on. Harry reached out to feel the fabric pointedly.

“Think about it. As soon as you kneel in these, they’re going to cut off your circulation. Go choose other ones.” Harry rolled his eyes as his slave grumpily acknowledged his order. Honestly, one would think Tom didn’t actually _want_ clothes with the way he was carrying on. Harry turned back to looking at the shirts.

“Well, it’s nice to see a young couple be all open about their dynamic,” came a voice from the other side of the rack. Harry startled slightly, but peering through the hangers, he saw the source of it. A slightly plump middle-aged woman was smiling at him.

“Excuse me?” Harry said, confused. The woman tapped her neck and nodded at Tom’s back. Harry flushed as he realised she must have either caught sight of the collar or heard him say ‘master’, or maybe both. The woman winked at him.

“No need to blush, dear. Though,” she continued in a thoughtful tone, “if one of my boys had given me that attitude, he’d be over my knee and getting a good spanking, middle of a shop or not! Still, I suppose you know your own dynamic better than me.” Harry was now totally confused. “Say, are you new around here?” the woman asked. Harry was off-kilter enough to answer honestly.

“Only started living here full time a few months ago.”

“That’d explain why I don’t know you. Haven’t had time to find all the local clubs, then?” Harry felt it safest to give a non-committal noise. The woman nodded sympathetically and started rooting around in her bag, muttering to herself. Harry was wondering whether he could go and hide in the jackets section, damn getting himself a couple of shirts, but before he could move, the woman was paying attention to him again. 

“Here you are,” she said cheerfully, holding out a card. Harry took it, figuring it was the best option to end this conversation. “If you want to play in company, come along to this place – it’s friendly and well-equipped, I promise, though the membership fee is a bit steep.” Harry nodded mutely. The woman looked at her watch. “Oh! Sorry to have to run, but my Albert is waiting for me. We’ve got some fun planned for today, you know.” She finished with another wink and then rushed off leaving Harry to wonder if that had been a particularly vivid hallucination. Only the card in his hand indicated otherwise. He looked at it. 

‘Klub Verboten’, it read, and the logo looked suspiciously like a collar crossed with a whip. Harry frowned at it and then jumped as Tom’s voice sounded from far too close next to him.

“A sex club, master?” The damn man sounded far too amused for Harry’s liking. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked in frustration and embarrassment. Now his slave was being confusing too! Tom nodded at the card.

“From the name and logo, I guess it’s a BDSM sex club.” Harry flushed darkly. He’d heard of BDSM in the boys dorms at Hogwarts, though it had only ever been in whispers – somehow, talking about tying people up and spanking them had felt so much more illicit than the usual lurid tales of kissing and fumbling in closets. He looked up at Tom. Sure enough, the damnable man was smirking.

“You do realise,” Harry said in a fit of pique, “that the woman thought we were practitioners due to that little accessory of yours. And,” he continued, trying to wipe that smirk off, “she practically suggested that I take you over my knee and spank the attitude out of you.” The smirk vanished and Tom actually took a step back. His crimson eyes searched Harry’s as if to work out whether his master was actually intending to do it or not. 

“Master, you wouldn’t…” he trailed off. Harry smirked back at him.

“No probably not,” he replied. Then his own quirked lips disappeared. “But never forget that I could.” Tom raised his hand to his neck over where the collar was.

“I don’t think I could, master,” he said. And for once, there was complete honesty in his voice. 

XXX

After getting approval on the new trousers he’d found, Tom continued looking for some shirts. Reluctant as he was to admit it, the quality of these clothes was actually pretty good. Some of them even had the original labels from the shops on them showing that they had been barely, if ever, used. He still resented having to wear second-hand clothes again – he thought he’d escaped that once he’d started making his own money after school. It was one more reminder that he was Tom again, not Lord Voldemort. 

That morning had been…interesting, so far. He had been dreading his master’s appearance at his door and had slept somewhat fitfully in the final parts of the night in order to ensure that he was ready when his master came to fetch him. To his relief, he had seen the signs of guilt within the boy’s eyes and felt them in his touch as he healed the wounds on Tom’s face. It was good to know that he hadn’t _completely_ misjudged how his master would react, even if he had been taken by surprise at the brutality shown early that morning. 

He had considered taking advantage of the guilt, using words to twist the knife and make the boy more amenable to his suggestions. In the end, he had decided against it – from what he’d heard and seen of the boy, he suspected that he could only push so far before it backfired. No, he was playing the long game here, and if that required passing up a few opportunities, so be it. 

He had to admit, though, that he felt more respect for the boy knowing that he would enforce his will when necessary, as much as he wished for his own sake that it wasn’t true. There was nothing that he despised more than weak-willed wizards who shouted out threats when they knew they were safe, then scurried away with their tails between their legs if called out on them. But he was rather glad that the punishment earlier that morning hadn’t been the indication of what the rest of the time would be like. At least, it didn’t seem so. 

He had even risked some amusement at his master’s expense, seeing that things had been rather smooth, and hadn’t received punishment for it, either from the collar or his master directly. Though for a moment, the comment about spanking had worried him…Perhaps it was better to be in the muggle world – surely the boy would be less likely to punish him in front of a whole load of muggles than in front of wizards who would recognise the situation. 

Calling the boy ‘master’ was coming easier now. Tom wasn’t really sure how to feel about that. Sure, it helped to avoid punishment – so far that morning, the only time his collar had punished him had been when he tried to leave the house without his master touching him, and even then it had only been a warning shock. On the other hand, Tom hated the idea that the slave behaviours would eventually become automatic.

He reminded himself that it was inevitable for at least some of the most common behaviours to become habits: it only took twenty-one days for an action to become habitual, so considering he was unlikely to find a solution to the slave collar in less than a few months – and that was once he had access to the books and magic he needed – many behaviours were inevitably going to become habit. The most important thing, he told himself, was that his _mind_ wasn’t affected. His body could do what it liked – habits could be broken later. But if his mind was changed by the feedback system of the collar so that he came to desire his own slavery, which was entirely possible, he was lost. 

In a way, the suffering that morning had had at least one good consequence: the boy expected him to be subdued and fearful, so he didn’t need to work as hard at ‘testing’ his limits. This, then, had the positive consequence of him not being exposed to the feedback system as intensely. He would take his victories where he could.

Once Tom had chosen his clothes, they went to the check-out where the boy proved his earlier words and added some items to the pile for himself. It still confused Tom why someone with as much money as the Potters were reputed to have would come to a charity shop for clothes. They then headed to a Marks & Spencer’s where Tom picked out some underwear, his master hovering nearby.

After that, they visited a Sainsbury’s where the boy told him to pick out some toiletries. This was a bit strange as a thought – Tom hadn’t had to buy _toiletries_ , well, ever. At the orphanage, soap had been available, and that had been the extent of it. At Hogwarts, he had quickly learned the grooming spells from watching his meticulous dorm-mates and then looking them up in the library. After he had come back to life, they hadn’t really been necessary. Shampoo had definitely been pointless and due to his insanity and inhumanity, the other personal grooming had been unnecessary and ignored too. So, in the end, he just picked items somewhat at random. His master smirked at one of the items, but Tom didn’t bother to ask him why the nice smelling deodorant with flowers on the bottle was worth such amusement.

After a short ordeal of wandering around the supermarket for the boy to collect some food items, they were done. If Tom was honest, once he knew his part was done, he hadn’t paid much attention to what his master was doing, apart from ensuring he wasn’t moving too far away. Instead, he had found himself staring at the shop and the shoppers. 

Things had changed so much since Voldemort had walked the muggle world. In fact, the last time Tom could remember spending actual time there had to be in the 50s at the latest. The shops he had seen then and the shops he saw now were completely different. Things were cleaner, more spaced out, and there was so much more technology – it was everywhere. From the devices that muggles carried around and spoke into to the machines used to decide how much the shoppers had to pay at the end of their trip…. Tom found himself idly wondering what other changes had happened in the muggle world.

So when the boy pulled something out of the bags that Tom didn’t remember seeing him put in once they had returned to the house, he wasn’t all that surprised. What it was though…

“Here,” his master said, holding out a long, slim stick to him. He took it and turned it over in his hands. The glass section at one end made a mostly-faded memory come back to him. Was this…?

“Master?” he said, for once not even thinking about the word in his wonder. The boy looked slightly embarrassed.

“I thought…well, you won’t need to search for a candle if you’ve got this, right? Oh, you need these too.” He dug something else out of the bag and handed it over. Tom took it. AA batteries, it said. “You’ll need to put those in the torch. When they get really dim or stop working, tell me and I’ll get some new ones.” Tom looked at the items in his hand and then looked at his master. For the first time in a long time, he felt…gratitude. It was such a small gesture and he knew that Harry was probably doing this out of guilt, but still…

“Thank you, master,” he said. And for once, he meant it. 

It wasn’t until much later that he realised he’d referred to the boy as ‘Harry’ in his mind, and the collar hadn’t punished him.

XXX

The next two weeks went by suspiciously smoothly, Harry thought. He wasn’t sure if it was paranoia or instinct making him uncomfortable at Tom’s docility, but regardless of the cause, he was. For the first few days, Harry could understand it as being a result of him torturing the man in punishment. But when it continued past a week and then into two weeks, he found his suspicions rising. There was no way the man who had been Voldemort could have been cowed into submission by a few seconds of torture, regardless of how bad it was…could he? 

But that’s what seemed to have happened. Tom spoke to him quasi-respectfully, he carried out Harry’s orders without defiance, and he behaved in all ways as the guidebook’s rules expected him to. In his free time, he curled up near the fire in the parlour with a book – on the floor if Harry was in there too. Their evening meals were silent and quick, but Tom had taken to the cooking facilities well enough for simple dishes. In fact, Harry didn’t think the collar had punished him at all in the last week, at least.

And frankly, it was worrying. After all, Harry was _very much_ a person to look a gift horse in the mouth, after having had far too many experiences where the gift horse turned out to be a disguised threat. A Tom who seemed to have lost all defiance and to have become some submissive slave was a cause for concern, not celebration. Because if Tom was anything like Voldemort, and surely he must be, then a quiet Tom was a plotting Tom. 

There was little Harry felt he could do, however. Without any _evidence_ , and after the way he had overreacted a couple of weeks ago, he was reluctant to confront the man. For all that he felt uncomfortable with the docility his slave was displaying at the moment, he would rather have it than constant aggression or defiance. If only he could be certain that Tom’s plotting was either harmless or destined to fail… 

Well, the man would have an opportunity today if h was going to try anything – Harry was going to Hogwarts for the day. He had decided to sign up to the ‘eight-year’ courses like many of those in his year and the year below who had found their education completely disrupted. He’d done the reading required and was now going to have some face to face tutorials with the teachers. At least it would keep him busy, and who knows? Maybe he would find something he was interested in doing for longer term. 

After leaving some instructions with Tom on what to clean that day, he apparated to Hogwarts’ gates. There, he found a milling group of other students from his year and the year below. 

“Ron!” he called, seeing a familiar red head. A hand was raised in a responded greeting. He made his way through the crowd, exchanging words with the people he knew, which was the vast majority. At least ten minutes later, he managed to reach Ron. His smile slipped slightly as he realised Ginny was there too.

“Hi Ginny,” he tried to say brightly, but wasn’t sure he had succeeded.

“Hi Harry,” she responded, also a bit more subdued than he might have expected of her normal self. There was a few moments of awkward quiet.

“Uh, how are you?” Harry asked to break the silence, wincing slightly at how it sounded.

“Fine, thanks,” she responded, just as lost. “Uh, and you?”

“Fine, thanks,” he echoed. They were silent for a few more moments.

“Um, Harry, I think I see some friends over there,” she waved vaguely towards the crowd. “I’ll see you later, alright.” Without another word she disappeared into the people. Harry watched her go and then turned back to his friend only to see Ron shaking his head.

“Seriously, you two. I would have thought you’d have been able to talk together again at this point.” Harry shrugged. It had been a mutual decision not to rekindle what they had started before the horcrux hunt, but it had left them not really knowing where they stood. “I still don’t understand why you just gave up,” Ron continued, a note of frustration in his voice. Harry shrugged again.

“I told you. We both changed over the war.”

“Yeah, but couldn’t that bring you together?” Harry didn’t reply. He never did when Ron raised that question. Because truthfully, he didn’t know the answer. All he knew was that they had been both damaged by their experiences, he with the horcrux hunt and his capture and torture of Death Eaters to try to find clues to the final horcruxes; Ginny with her experience with the Carrows in Hogwarts and then doing raids with her Resistance comrades during what should have been her seventh year. 

That was why so many of them were here – it wasn’t just Harry’s year group who missed out on a significant amount of their education due to the war. After one year of a Death Eater controlled Hogwarts, the majority of the Resistance members had pulled out, leaving only those members who hadn’t been identified. For those who were still in Sixth year or below, they would have time to catch up for their NEWTS. For Ginny’s year who should have done their Seventh last year, or for Harry’s year who either missed out entirely on their Seventh year, like Harry, or just had a very disrupted year, like Neville, they needed more focused help to be prepared. 

Thus, the arrangement Minerva had come to. They would do mostly self-study out of books, but they would have this time to discuss questions with the teachers and do practical lessons under supervision. 

“So what did you decide to take?” Harry asked Ron, desperate to change the conversation. 

“Charms, Defence, Transfiguration , and Potions. I figured with Snape gone, I might have a chance of passing that one.” Ron grinned and Harry returned it, gratefully for things to be back to something like normal. “I’m going to be studying Arithmancy and Runes on the side, probably will take the NEWTs for them at the Ministry when I’m good enough.You?”

“Same. No point in Divination and I’m not good enough in Herbology or Magical Creatures to focus on them, I think.”

“Are you going to take Kingsley up on his offer to make you an Auror recruit?” Ron looked at Harry meaningfully. Harry sighed.

“I haven’t decided,” he admitted. Ron shrugged.

“Well, he’ll wait for a bit. But not forever. They need more fighters, Harry, and you’re a bloody good one.”

“Too good,” snapped Harry quietly. He was about to continue when the gates of Hogwarts creaked open. Minerva McGonagall stood on the other side of them, looking as stern as always. There was a moment of silence, then she smiled slightly.

“Welcome back,” is all she said. They cheered. She let it continue for a moment before raising a hand. Such was the respect for her that the cheers died away almost instantly. “I’m glad to see so many of you have decided to finish your education despite the disruption of the last two years. Now, you should all have received your reading lists.” She paused for a moment as if to invite anyone to say they hadn’t. No one spoke so she continued. “Today will be mostly tests.” There were a few groans, but Harry figured it was inevitable – they had changed a lot since the last time they had been learning at Hogwarts. “We will use these tests to decide your timetables along with what supplementary reading is suggested for you to catch up on the necessary areas. I have some provisional timetables here for your practical and theoretical tests.” She withdrew a small pack of papers and used a spell to send them to the correct people. Harry looked at his.

Defence theory, then Defence practical, Charms theory then practical, a pause, lunch, then Transfiguration theory and practical, and finally, Potions theory and practical. It was going to be absolutely exhausting, he already knew. He looked over at Ron’s. His friend had the same lessons, but their practicals and theories were reversed. Harry guessed that made sense – they were trying to fit about forty students into all their tests in one day; it must have taken a significant amount of time to timetable!

“Before you can enter, however, I must make myself clear. As adults returning to Hogwarts for your missed education, you are set apart from the other students. You no longer reside here, so there is no need for houses. You will sit at a different table in the Great Hall if you choose to stay for lunch. Of course, if you wish to wear your house colours, you are welcome to do so, but your actions will earn or lose house points. Instead, I am _trusting_ you to behave appropriately. You are all here because you wish to finish your education – if that is not your goal, there is nothing obliging you to stay.” She paused to let that sink in. Harry got the message; he thought they all did – behave or be kicked out of the programme. Well, without Snape or Malfoy around, he didn’t think he’d be getting into nearly as much trouble as in previous years. He was here to learn, that was all. Apparently, the Headmistress was satisfied with whatever she saw in their faces. 

“Be welcome, then, all of you,” she said, moving aside to allow them to start stepping into Hogwarts’ grounds. “And remember, your teachers are giving up their free periods for this, so you might want to say thank you,” she reminded them. 

“Nice to be treated like adults, right Harry?” Ron asked, a hint of glee in his voice. Harry smiled at him because yes, after all the years of clearing up after the messes made by adults, of being expected to grow up far too fast, yes, they were being treated like they could make their own decisions. “So, Harry, what did you mean by ‘too good’? How can you be too good at something?” Harry groaned. He’d hoped Ron would leave it be, but like his patronus, unfortunately he could be a bit of a dog with a bone sometimes. 

“Look, I just don’t like the person it made me into, OK?”

“You mean the guy who found a way to defeat Voldemort, right?” Ron asked sceptically. Harry sighed.

“No, I mean the guy who tortured Death Eaters,” _and enjoyed it_ , he finished in his own mind, not able to say it aloud, even to his best friend. Ron stopped moving and put a hand out to stop Harry too. They got a few looks but no one interrupted them. 

“Harry, you’ve got to stop beating yourself up about it. It was _war._ And we were desperate. It doesn’t mean you’ve become, like, some kind of sadist!” He waited until Harry gave a non-committal shrug before sighing and letting them move off again, now at the back of the parade. He didn’t push it any further, but Harry had a gut-feeling he hadn’t heard the last of it.

XXX

_Maybe I should have taken Divination_ was Harry’s grumpy thought when, sitting at the fifth table in the Great Hall for lunch, Ron restarted the conversation. And this time, he brought Neville into it.

“Harry’s not sure he wants to become an Auror. I think he’d be great at it! What do you think, Neville?”

Harry had been thinking about the previous two periods. He’d actually been in quite a good mood – despite some of his theory _definitely_ having gaps in, he’d found the practicals fun and thought he’d done quite well in them. For Defence, he’d had to shoot targets with different spells. Some of the targets were moving for testing accuracy, some flashed different colours depending on the spell required and then showed with brightness how powerful it needed to be, and some of them vanished and then re-appeared requiring quick casts. As for Charms, he’d actually had a short duel with professor Flitwick, which had been really fun. 

So yeah, he’d actually been smiling until his so-called best friend decided to bring up the conversation he’d thought they’d finished that morning. Neville looked at him, actually studied his eyes for a moment. 

“I think you should leave it be, Ron.” Neville’s voice was quiet but firm. Harry grinned at the sound. They’d barely come into contact with Neville during the last two years – with him leading the Hogwarts Resistance and them chasing after horcruxes, there hadn’t been many times when their paths had crossed. Nonetheless, they’d heard a lot about him, the man who had stood up to the Carrows for an entire year, tortured and threatened with his life, but still unwilling to give up. Harry thought he could see that in Neville now. His eyes were older and he had a scar down the side of his face, but he had a quiet confidence and presence that made you think he was someone who could be trusted. In many ways, Harry mused, Neville was a much better leader than he was. 

“But Neville, think about it. What does Harry like doing? Protecting people. What does Harry do well? Fighting. Who fights while protecting people? Aurors! And we need some good ones after deaths during the war!” He sounded frustrated. Harry understood. To be honest, he wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to do it. Sure, he was worried about the dark beast which had woken inside him. Sure he was tired of his whole life being about Dark wizards. But were those just excuses? Nevertheless, he was glad when Neville shut the conversation down.

“Harry will do what’s best for him. Just like you’ve chosen to go into curse-breaking instead of the Aurors,” he pointed out. Ron blushed slightly.

“Yeah, but I’m not as good as Harry at fighting,” he objected. Neville shrugged. 

“You’re much better than most of those who will be entering the ranks thanks to Kingsley’s offer. But that’s not my point. You’ve chosen to do cursebreaking, which is fine, when you could have been an Auror recruit.”

“Yeah, but…” Ron trailed off for a moment before catching his train of thought. “Honestly, I can’t see Harry doing anything else. Solving mysteries, catching bad guys and helping others has been the story of his Hogwarts years.” He shrugged, but then seemed to concede that Harry didn’t want to talk about it and shifted focus. Harry was sure that was Hermione’s influence – the Ron of Fourth year with an emotional range of a teaspoon probably wouldn’t have even realised. “Anyway, what are you doing, Neville?” Neville smiled

“I’m an Auror recruit right now.”

“See!” exclaimed Ron, rounding on Harry, seemingly unable to resist. 

“ _But_ ,” emphasised Neville, continuing, “I chose to do that not because my father was an Auror or because people were telling me to do so, but because _I_ wanted to do it.”

“So is Kingsley making allowances for you to come here once a week?” Harry asked, intrigued despite himself. Neville nodded.

“Well, Gwain Robards is, not Kingsley exactly since Robards has been appointed the head of the Auror office, but I’m sure Kingsley had a hand in it. We’re at the Ministry every day between nine and seven, Tuesday to Friday for our Auror training, and we have the time on Monday for this. I think that Robards would take us without our NEWTs, because of Kingsley’s decree, but would rather we had them. It’s going to be hard work, but it’ll be worth it.” 

“Are there many people who have decided to go for it?” Harry asked, wondering if Kingsley, or Robards, had been flooded with applicants due to the relaxed entry requirements.

“Several of the Resistance have decided to do it.” Neville looked around the table at the other Eighth year students who had chosen to stay for lunch, then pointed out a few. “I’ve seen Dean and Seamus in my classes, so they’re doing it. So are Padma, Susan and Justin. Of people not in the Resistance, Jim and Lucy there are doing it,” Harry recognised them as Ravenclaws in Ginny’s year, but hadn’t known their names. “And there are even a couple of Slytherins – Blaise Zabini from our year and Richard Goldstein from the year below.” 

“Is that everyone in your classes?” Neville shrugged.

“Pretty much. But not everyone will become an Auror – the usual drop-out or failure rate is about seventy percent. So, it might seem a lot, but probably only two or three of us will be accepted into the Aurors proper.” Harry was quiet for a moment.

“Why do you think other members of the Resistance didn’t want to join?” Neville shrugged.

“A mixture of reasons, I think. For some, the Resistance was something they did because they couldn’t bear submitting to the Carrows and to Voldemort as an extension – when they were defeated, the Resistance members happily gave up fighting. For others, like you, they had enough of fighting wizards during the war. For the rest, they simply had other interests. Ginny, for example, is a very good fighter, but she wants to become a professional quidditch player, not an Auror.” Harry hummed in acknowledgement. A thought occurred to him that he had wondered the answer to in the past. It seemed a good opportunity now.

“Neville, when you first started the Resistance with Ginny and Luna, you called it Dumbledore’s Army, reviving the group that we had. When and why did it change to the Hogwarts Resistance?” Ron looked rather interested in the answer too. Neville looked thoughtful, then met Harry’s eyes, his gaze far older than his otherwise youthful appearance.

“Do you remember Blackpool?” Harry nodded. That had been one of the few times his group had worked directly with Neville’s, shortly after the Resistance had pulled out from Hogwarts. They had needed to conduct a raid on a Death Eater stronghold in Blackpool to gain access to some critical information. Harry, Ron and Hermione had been there because they had hoped to capture Rodolphus Lestrange in the hope that he might have information on the horcruxes – they had succeeded, but he hadn’t known anything, regardless of what they did to him. It had been both a high point – being briefly reunited with friends – and low point – for all the lives that had been lost, it hadn’t been as helpful as they had hoped.

“I remember,” he replied, keeping his voice steady as he remembered the war-time funerals they had done, sometimes without the body, always hurried.

“Ron spoke to me about how you discovered what Dumbledore had planned.” Harry looked sharply at the friend in question. Ron just looked back at him.

“He deserved to know why we were so keen to join in. He deserved to know our chances of winning,” the red-head said steadily. Harry looked away. It was true. Neville, as the leader of the Resistance, definitely deserved to know that they were continuing to fight because of Harry’s cowardice. Neville seemed to read the thoughts from his face because he sharply interjected.

“No! You don’t deserve to feel guilt for that, Harry. It was unreasonable to ask you to step in front of Voldemort’s wand, willingly dying when you didn’t even know for certain it would work, nor whether you had eliminated all of his horcruxes.” He lowered his voice on the last word, not wanting it to be overheard. “It was then that I realised I had lost all respect for the man who expected a teenager to die to win a war that had happened under his purview. I talked to the other leaders of the group and we all agreed to name it something different. We wanted to call it ‘Harry’s Army’, but I was pretty sure you wouldn’t accept that, so we ended up with the Hogwarts Resistance, since that’s where we had started.” Harry found himself relieved at the clear thinking of his friend; he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to hear about ‘Harry’s Army’! In the end, there was only one thing he could say.

“Thank you,” he breathed, his eyes shining with gratitude for Neville’s understanding, for his support. Neville simply smiled at him.

“No need, Harry. I had faith in you and you succeeded. That’s all that matters,” he said simply.

XXX

By the end of the day another of Harry’s predictions had come true: he was exhausted. The Transfiguration practical had been a simple but demanding series of transfigurations from one object to another. Of course, the fact that every time an object was transfigured, it was harder to transfigure it again made the task more and more demanding. Still, he felt he’d done well enough – his transfiguration skills had certainly had a work out over the last two years after all. 

Not so with the Potions practical. He had had to brew a nutrient potion, tricky in many places, and was not certain at all that the potion hadn’t turned instead into a poison. He wouldn’t have drunk it, not even if Snape had threatened him. At least Slughorn hadn’t made much comment. He suspected that his theory was spotty as always, but would wait until he got the results to do much reading.

As a consolation, when he met up with Ron afterwards, he looked just as tired. Then, Harry had a brainwave. It had been so nice to catch up a bit with Ron, despite him hounding Harry a bit about joining the Aurors, and despite seeing his friends in the previous months, they hadn’t taken time to just relax together. Rebuilding Hogwarts and going to funerals and wakes just wasn’t the same as taking some time together. 

“Hey Ron,” said Harry. “Why don’t we go get Hermione and bring her to Grimmauld Place? We could have dinner together. It would be good to catch up properly,” he finished, a slight note of wistfulness in his voice. Ron grinned widely and clapped him on the back.

“Great idea, mate! It’ll be like old times.” Harry grinned. They walked to Hogwarts’ gates, chatting all the while, then Ron side-along apparated Harry to where they were staying – apparently they had chosen to move away from the Burrow in order to be more independent. Knowing Molly Weasley as he did, Harry wasn’t surprised at their decision. 

Popping his head in the door, Ron shouted for Hermione, then explained the idea.

“Wonderful suggestion, Harry!” exclaimed Hermione. “And good timing – I’ve just finished my work for the day too.”

Apparating back to Grimmauld Place – at least they all knew the destination well enough – they landed on the doorstep. Harry opened the door and let his friends in. They went to the sitting room where, like an anvil landing on his head, Harry was abruptly reminded of _why_ he hadn’t invited his friends around in the last two weeks, despite having finished the rebuilding and funerals. Ron snarled behind him, whipping out his wand to point at the man frozen in the act of cleaning an ornament on the mantelpiece. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione copying Ron, though seeming confused about why – Harry abruptly remembered that she had never seen Tom Riddle. Ron had, if only briefly, when he had come out of the locket horcrux as it was destroyed. Turning around, he held up his hands to halt his friends.

“It’s OK, he’s no danger,” he told them. Ron didn’t seem to believe him and Hermione just looked confused.

“No danger? That’s bloody Voldemort, Harry!” Ron protested. At that, Hermione’s eyes widened and her grip on her wand tightened as her lips pressed together more firmly. 

“I know, Ron. But look at his neck.” His friends did so, Hermione gasping and raising her free hand to her mouth as she lowered her wand.

“Harry…tell me you didn’t…” she said quietly, pleadingly, but Harry’s attention was on Ron who was still staring at the menacing-looking figure standing by the fire, his wand raised threateningly. He didn’t seem to see the collar wrapped around Tom’s throat, nor the cleaning cloth and ornament in his hand. Harry didn’t really blame him – maybe a demonstration was in order. 

Turning slightly so his body was slightly more angled towards the fire than his friends, he twisted his head towards his slave.

“Tom, kneel,” he ordered.

XXX

Tom heard the command. It was somewhat unnecessary since the collar had been sending shivers of pain down his spine since his master’s entry, reminding him that his correct position in the presence of his master was on his knees. All the command did was to hasten his inevitable submission. But inevitable as it might be…he couldn’t do it. Not willingly.

Two weeks of suppressing his feelings of humiliation when he had to kneel to a boy less than half his age and with only a fraction of his power or talent, to call him ‘master’. Two weeks of cleaning items _like a muggle_ because he was not allowed to use his magic. Two weeks of forcing himself to keep biting comments and insults behind his teeth because he was afraid of the consequences. Two weeks of being a _slave_ in a way that the guards at the Ministry had never managed to make him be. 

All those feelings had come crashing down on him all at once with the appearance of those two sidekicks who had helped the boy defy him so many times. The blood traitor and mudblood who were even _less_ talented than the one he was forced to call ‘master’. And he was supposed to kneel before them? To show them respect? When they were already seeing him brought so low?

He simply couldn’t. 

Never mind how ‘well’ he had been doing recently. Never mind that his theory of diminishing returns of pleasure when following the same rules had been proven. Never mind that a part of him had already started hankering for more reward every time the pleasure lessened. Never mind that the collar would certainly punish him, and his master perhaps more. He couldn’t kneel willingly before them.

So he set his teeth in a defiant snarl and stayed standing, his fingers tight enough around the ornament that a small part of his brain was worried about breaking it. In that moment he wished he could see answering anger in the boy’s eyes, anger at his defiance, proof that he still meant something to somebody, if only as an opponent. 

Waves of pain battered him, small warnings at first at his defiance, and then greater shocks designed to punish, to defeat. He stood against them as they intensified, waiting for the flare of anger to come in those emerald eyes. Waiting for the boy to lose control, to force him to his knees or insult him or do _something_. But he didn’t.

The boy’s eyes were calm and expectant with no anger to be seen. And it was the realisation of _why_ that finally broke Tom’s resolve. Because as much as Tom knew his submission was inevitable, so did his master. 

Whimpers being forced from his throat as the pain attacked his nerves and dipped them in fire and lightening, the physical pain no greater than his mental anguish at the soul-deep realisation of his utter helplessness, Tom finally gave up. He slumped to his knees and lowered his head, his hands on the floor to stop him from prostrating himself completely. 

The pain stopped immediately and Tom shuddered as a huge dose of pleasure ripped through him. As soon as it, too, faded, he felt the beginnings of a craving to have it back, to feel it again. Pushing that firmly aside, he grounded himself in the twitches of abused muscles and the small shivers of residual pain that ran through his nerves. It wasn’t _pleasant_ , but that was the point – pain was so much less effective than pleasure. He wished he’d realised that all those years ago when starting his campaign – he would have been unstoppable. 

His master was talking. Tom paid attention, in case either there was anything he had to do, or that he could use. 

“-you see, he’s unable to resist my commands. Voldemort is gone. He’s defeated. Tom’s all that remains.”

“But Harry! A slave?” that was the mudblood. “It’s _inhumane_ , this punishment – how could you support it by buying a slave?” At hearing the outrage in her voice, Tom turned over the idea in his mind of perhaps getting her on side, using her feelings to create sympathy for him. Then, maybe she could convince his master to be more lenient…maybe even allow him to read any book he wanted…

“First of all, I didn’t buy him. Lady Magic made me his master because of the way our souls are apparently ‘entwined’ thanks to the prophecy. The Ministry gave him to me when they realised that no one else could gain ownership over his collar. Second, it’s _Voldemort_. Frankly, I think that the punishment is actually pretty fair in general, and in this case in particular…definitely deserved.”

“Being a slave is _deserved_? No one deserves to have their will stripped away from them, to be forced to take actions because of their fear of _torture_. Tell me you see something wrong in how he was just forced to obey you?!” There was a pause and then his master continued, speaking much more gently and calmly than Tom would have expected.  
a  
“Hermione, your defence of the defenceless has always been laudable. I’ve heard about the waves you’re already making in your department, the legislation you’re starting to put forward to protect house elves and werewolves. But we’re not talking about defenceless, much-maligned victims of the Wizarding world here. We’re talking about _Voldemort_ , the man who would have done a lot worse to us and _did_ do a lot worse to many people, either by his own action or by his orders. If the tables were turned, do you think I’d be kneeling in his house, given decent clothes and plenty of food? 

“No, I’d be in his dungeon, tortured to within an inch of my life every day and barely given enough sustenance to live. All assuming he didn’t just kill me or let one of his Death Eaters kill me. And the same would be true for you guys. So frankly, I’m not feeling guilty at treating him like a slave when I _could_ be treating him far worse.” And there went Tom’s thoughts of using his mudblood friend against him. Because when he heard his master speaking like that, when he remembered the pain he had been subjected to for simply referencing his godfather’s death…he knew it was too risky. 

“I agree with you, mate,” spoke up the red-haired blood traitor, his voice grim. “When I think about what Voldemort and his Death Eaters did…death is too good for them. I want them to _suffer_!”

“ _Ron_!” Her voice was even more outraged than previously. 

“Do you know what they did to Ginny in Hogwarts?” he demanded. “Do you? Because I don’t. But I do know that she still wakes up screaming from nightmares. I know that she flinches when a man stands over her. I know that she has a hair-trigger alert on drawing her wand whenever she hears even the faintest sound. So, knowing that the _bastards_ who made my baby sister so afraid are currently being treated like the _nothing_ that they tried to make everyone else be? Yeah, I’m glad of it. Honestly, mate, if I were you, that _monster_ would be in a significantly worse condition than he appears to be.” 

Tom shuddered slightly at the hate in his voice. He was starting to wonder if he had maybe dodged a curse by being tied to his strangely moral nemesis. Because really, the boy’s words had been correct – if the tables had been turned and his master had been his slave…oh the fun he would have had. He still would if he could get rid of this thing around his neck. He was pulled out of daydreams of torturing the three in the room with him by a small pain from the collar, a warning that danced along his spine and to his fingertips. 

“But…Ron, Harry…” the mudblood seemed to struggle for words. “We should be rising above that. How can we say we have the moral high ground when we turn around and _enslave_ our enemies? Yes, they would do it to us, but we should be _better_ than that.” There was a pause for a moment. Tom had to admit that he was curious about the answer, so made sure that he stayed as still as possible – let them forget that he was there.

“Hermione, to me, it’s not so much about revenge,” his master murmured. “Sure, sometimes I wake up from nightmares of the war and I remember that I have their architect sleeping in a bedroom down the corridor. And there’s a part of me that urges me to get up, to go and wake him up, to make him feel my pain and the pain of those I watched him hurt.” Tom swallowed at the thought and suddenly felt less safe in his room at night. “But to me, it’s about justice – those who harmed others can no longer do so. And, while they are serving their sentences, they are no longer able to influence the Wizarding world – we have a chance to create the world we want now.”

“But mate, when they are freed, when they finish their sentences, they’ll be able to hurt and influence others again.”

“I don’t think so, Ron. I mean, sure, the ones who served him only a short time have short sentences, but they were probably less affected by his influence, anyway. And maybe, their experience in being on the losing side might make them think more carefully about how they wish to defy the law in the future. But for those like Bellatrix Lestrange or Walden Mcnair? Death Eaters who were in his service for a long time and hurt a _lot_ of people? They’re going to be very different when they come out.”

“What do you mean, Harry?” The mudblood. 

“Have you seen the slavery guidebook?” he paused and Tom assumed there was some non-verbal gesture that he couldn’t see and didn’t want to move to see in case he was sent out. “There’s some sort of punishment-reward system in the collar designed to make obedient slaves of their wearers. You saw the punishment bit just now. So for those Death Eaters who are going to be slaves for a good decade or more? Yeah, I doubt they’re going to be much of a problem when they’re free.”

“Uh, Harry?” the blood traitor sounded uncertain. “Do you think…?” There was a pause. 

“Oh! No, it doesn’t matter that he’s listening. He read the guidebook too and is plenty intelligent to work out the implications. Plus, he’s never going free. It’s a life sentence for both of us.” Here, Tom’s master gave a humourless chuckle. _That’s what you think_ , thought Tom, determined to make sure it didn’t come true.  
The blood traitor and the mudblood didn’t stay for much longer. Tom felt perversely glad that he made them feel uncomfortable with his presence. When the boy came back from seeing them out, he threw himself into his chair and sighed. 

“You can get up, you know,” he said wearily in Tom’s direction. Tom lifted his head and looked at him.

“Does my master not enjoy seeing his slave on his knees?” he asked neutrally. The boy stilled, staring into the fire.

“Do I enjoy it?” his master repeated softly, musingly. “Actually, as much as I hate to recognise it in myself, yes.” He twisted his head and looked Tom directly in the eyes. At the fiery embers glowing in those emeralds, Tom almost recoiled. Instead, though, he found a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. His erstwhile nemesis still felt something for him – he could still kindle strong emotions.

“For what you did to the Boneses, the Smiths, the Petersons, the McKinnons, the Wilsons, the Johnsons, the Woods, the Robinsons and everyone else who died by your wand or by the wands of your Death Eaters, on your orders, I would gladly see you suffer a lot more than simply _kneeling_.”

“Then why don’t you, master?” Tom challenged, not quite sure why he did so. Perhaps the last few months had made him more reckless because he had less to lose. Although, was that true? His mind for one had never been this much under threat. So why? The boy sat back and the intensity in his eyes faded.

“Because it would make me feel worse than it would you,” he replied simply. Tom frowned, unable to understand that. His master continued speaking. “So you don’t need to worry, _Tom_ – I’m not going to come into your room in the middle of the night and curse you, because with that collar on your neck, you _are_ helpless. And torturing the helpless has always been Voldemort’s thing, not mine. But if you act like Voldemort in any way…” he trailed off, but Tom could finish the sentence himself. If he acted like Voldemort, he would be treated like him, and that meant all bets were off.

XXX

End chapter notes (added here instead of in the proper end notes because otherwise anyone reading the entire story only gets to see them at the end of the story, which isn't the right place):

*The explanation of the Cruciatus Curse is not originally mine. I can’t remember whose story I got it from, but if anyone else knows, please tell me and I’ll credit them for it.

**Voldemort – in case you were wondering about my characterisation here, I’ve tried to keep it somewhat true to the books. You know, flipping through the books for scenes with Voldemort in, I’ve come to realise that for the main antagonist of the series, he gets surprisingly little ‘screen-time’. Probably this was intentional to keep him as a ‘mysterious’ and ‘dangerous’ figure – nothing ruins horror quite so much as seeing whatever the scary thing was. Anyway, it makes attempting a somewhat canon characterisation quite difficult.

What I’ve come to the conclusion of is, however, that Voldemort really isn’t that subtle, preferring intimidation over subtle manipulation. Even as a child, Tom chose to kill the rabbit and suspend it as a fear tactic rather than anything subtler. As an adult, instead of going through the political system to make his changes, he travels to learn and practice the dark arts, then returns to have an interview with Dumbledore where he all but shouts his intentions. Then he runs a war which is characterised by loud, obvious murders of important people in a clear method of intimidation. The plans which we see carried out – his attempt to gain the philosopher’s stone, the Triwizard Tournament, gaining the prophecy, invading Hogwarts…most of them work, to an extent, with Harry being the main reason they don’t succeed, but they’re not all that subtle either.

Frankly, the only time when he seemed to show any real kind of subtle manipulation was when he was at school. This, presumably, was actually one of the weakest times of his life. I mean, sure, as a baby, he would have been physically weaker. But the threat might have been less until he started demonstrating magic. Then, as he started controlling the magic, he rose to a position of power, or at least fear, within the orphanage. At school, he was a first year, one of the weakest in the school. Added to that, he was a penniless orphan in Slytherin whose last name didn’t connect him to any known pureblood family. As a result, I would imagine he was picked on by many people, especially in his house. Without his magic being able to give him an edge, I imagine he constructed the persona of ‘Tom Riddle – model student’ to have some protection and slowly start gaining influence.<br />

And that’s the position I envision he’s in now – unable to access his magic, with someone who is unimpressed by him, forced to obey commands and faced with a positive-negative feedback system which will slowly turn his very brain chemistry against him, he’s scrambling for a way to come out on top once more. And since he has already had experience with what to do when he’s at the bottom, it’s back to Tom Riddle’s tactics he goes.

***Harry – In contrast to Voldemort, Harry gets a huge amount of ‘screen-time’, presumably because he’s the main character so we’re supposed to get to know and love him. Which I did, it’s true. I see Harry as ultimately well-meaning, with a fierce spirit towards defending his friends and family – growing up with the Dursleys has no doubt made him cling to those who show him affection, something Dumbledore may have intentionally manipulated. But I’m not going to discuss Dumbledore at this point. Harry is capable of great courage and great self-sacrifice, as is shown at several points but never more so than at the end of the seventh book. He’s a loyal friend, shown by his acceptance of Ron’s apology in the fourth book. He’s also independent, thinking for himself and often not following directions from others that he sees no point for.

He can also be petty – that’s clear from his behaviour with Snape (the poster child for pettiness) and Draco Malfoy. He can take joy in the suffering of those he dislikes as long as he can justify it – think about the bouncing ferret moment if you doubt me. The last two are what I’m trying to show here. Voldemort is not a friend. He is not family. He’s also not a victim that might evoke Harry’s protective tendencies – I love Poetic Justice by Vickironica and Last Resort by Altheraa, but they have set up much more of a victim!Tom than I have and therefore it makes sense that Harry would be kinder to the half-broken Tom that he encounters in those stories than the still defiant Tom that he encounters here.

So, in short, Harry’s not going to be intentionally cruel – he’s not going to go out of his way to torture the man, but he’s also not going to go out of his way to be kind. And if Tom does something that reminds Harry that he used to be Voldemort…well, Harry’s going to react based on the suffering he and his family experienced at the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Tom have got through the first few days together, but finding a way to live together is far from easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is being updated a lot quicker than I expected! You can thank Vickironica for a wonderful discussion which both inspired me and enabled me to actually write some plot points for the future. Contrary to my original idea of this being a four or five part story, it looks like the narrative might go on for a fair bit longer... We'll see. 
> 
> On another note, don't expect another update any time soon, I'm afraid, as my hands are now aching from all the writing this week! Being positive, however, I'm sure Vickironica will chase me up enough to prevent me from forgetting about this story ;)
> 
> Enjoy the chapter! I'd love to read your thoughts :)

It had been five days since Harry’s visit to Hogwarts and he knew he was grumping around Grimmauld Place like a bear with a sore head. The reason? He couldn’t make up his mind. The conversation he’d had with Ron and Neville had stuck with him, repeating itself in snatches every time he allowed his mind to wander. Should he try to be an Auror or not?

Reasons for and against the idea ran through his head on repeat, and every time he thought he’d settled the matter with himself, a new thought or reminder of a previous thought rose to prove himself still undetermined. That it was making him irritable and grumpy was an understatement, he knew. Tom had been keeping out of his way as much as possible, and he didn’t blame the man. As soon as he entered a room, his slave would kneel, then ask politely to be excused. The exception was over their shared dinner, but those were always silent and eaten quickly.

To be frank, since his outright refusal to kneel until the collar forced him a few days ago, Tom had been behaving well. Harry wasn’t foolish enough to think that it meant anything other than the man being keen not to be punished, but at least that was a step in the right direction. If he was honest with himself, Harry was slightly disappointed at that.

He’d meant what he’d said to Tom: torturing the helpless was not something he could forgive himself for, but Merlin if he didn’t wish that Tom would give him a reason! He didn’t want to go and destroy a room that he’d worked hard to renovate, but he was itching to expend some magic _somehow_. Then a brainwave hit him. He was currently living in the house with a man who was notorious for his fighting skills, and he had the ability to control his use of magic…

Harry had the nasty feeling that Hermione would say this was leeting his emotions rule him – logically, allowing Tom Riddle aka Voldemort the use of destructive magic was a _bad_ idea. But honestly, Harry was far too frustrated to be thinking of reason. Still, he knew that he would have to put some very careful thought into the instructions he gave Tom – the man might not be able to kill him without dying himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go too far if given the opportunity. And Harry didn’t want to risk that he had some spell which he could cast on Harry to enthral _him_ and take control.

After some time thinking and writing and rewriting his instructions, Harry decided he was ready. Now they just needed to have a room. Another twenty minutes of hunting through Grimmauld Place, he thought he’d found it. He’d suspected that the Blacks would have had a duelling room, and his thoughts had been proved true. It was rather dusty and Harry wasn’t certain the duelling wards were up to scratch, but he had a way to find that out. Now it was time to find his opponent.

The search for Tom took a lot less time – he’d actually seen the man during the previous search, so he just returned to the dining room. Pausing by the doorway, he took a moment to appreciate the sight in front of him: Tom Riddle on his knees, scrubbing the floor. Harry’s eyes ran over the lines of his shoulders, the muscles he could see clearly outlined since Tom had taken off his shirt. The sweat coating him, the reason for his half-nakedness , gave the appearance of oiled skin that glimmered in the light from the fire. Then Harry realised he was staring at _Tom Riddle_ and abruptly tore his eyes away.

He might appreciate the sight of a male body a lot more than he would have expected, but staring was inappropriate on multiple levels. Tom having been Voldemort was one of them, but more importantly, he was Harry’s slave – his consent in any situation such as that would be dubious at best and Harry felt sick at the thought of raping someone, regardless of that having clearly been the _use_ for slaves in the past.

Harry cleared his thoughts with a sharp shake of his head and then cleared his throat to signal his presence to the man in front of him. Tom jumped slightly, then twisted round, bowing his head slightly.

“Master,” he said neutrally. “Do you need something?” Harry had got used to the more polite tone Tom had used since his punishment five days ago, but it still made him wonder what the man was plotting. As of yet, he hadn’t seen any signs, but that didn’t mean anything…

“Come with me,” he ordered. “Leave the cleaning equipment.” He led the way to the duelling chamber and then looked at Tom expectantly. “Can you tell if the duelling wards are still intact?”

“Yes, master,” the man told him, a note of curiosity in his voice.

“Yes they’re intact, or yes you can tell?”

“Yes, they’re intact.”

“How do you know?” he asked, curious himself. His slave’s jaw firmed slightly, showing his lack of desire to explain, but he did so anyway.

“I can feel them, master.” Hmm…that was interesting. Harry wondered whether everyone could do it, and since he had a walking encyclopaedia here, he decided to satisfy his curiosity.

“Can anyone learn to feel wards?” The man’s jaw twitched. Well, too bad for him if he was feeling irritated – Harry had been feeling that was for much longer. Tom could deal.

“It takes practice, master, but…yes.” Then maybe Harry should get Tom to give him instructions at some point, but not today.

“OK, thanks. Now, I know you’d love to curse me, so I’m going to give you the opportunity,” he said brightly. Tom’s expression was fun to watch. It flicked through a few different emotions - desire, apprehension, excitement, fear – before settling back into neutrality.

“Master?” he questioned, as if not sure he’d heard correctly.

“You heard me,” chirped Harry, in a better mood than he had been all week. “Within some strict rules, of course, but we’re going to duel.”

“But, master, what about the collar?” asked Tom. “And a…wand.” As he said the last, an expression of deep longing crossed his face. Something inside Harry squirmed at the look and he abruptly pushed it away – whatever that feeling was, it wasn’t pleasant.

The wand, at least, was an easy solution. At the awards ceremony Kingsley had forced him to attend as promised, he had been presented with an Order of Merlin First Class along with the wand of his defeated enemy. He had been keeping it in his room under strong wards, but had fetched it before getting Tom. He pulled it out now, watching Tom carefully.

XXX

Lord Voldemort looked at the familiar pale wand and felt hunger rise inside him again. He longed to snatch it from the boy’s hands and cast an Avada Kedavra, watch the green light wash over the boy who dared to call himself his master and…The daydream was abruptly shattered by pain lancing into him from the collar. Tom, he reminded himself. Lord Voldemort had been _retired_. For now. Until he could find a way to be free. And regardless of how much he desired to have his wand back in his hands, this was not the moment to lose control.

He didn’t have a spell that he could use against the boy to either kill him without killing Tom too, nor did he have a spell which would reliably bend the boy to his will. Sure, he had the Imperius Curse, but the boy was known for being resistant to it. Other magic he knew for the swaying of an enemy’s mind were either potions or enchantments, all of which required more preparation than he had been able to do.

So snatching his wand, attempting to cast magic on his master would be worse than useless – it would actively work against him. The fact that the boy was going to allow him to use magic, even under strict rules, was a major step forwards. He wasn’t going to ruin his chance by being Gryffindor-like and rushing in without preparation. No, a true snake waited until his prey was in his carefully prepared trap and then would strike when the outcome was assured. But if he saw an opportunity, he wouldn’t hesitate to take it.

Therefore, instead of snatching his wand, he waited patiently, his hands unmoved from his side, where they had been all along. After a pause which he realised his master had used to carefully observe his reactions, making Tom even gladder that he hadn’t done something hasty, the boy continued speaking.

“We’re going to duel, so I am going to make some temporary changes to the rules you have to follow. These exemptions only apply when we are in this duelling room with fully functioning duelling wards and when I say the following words: ‘Kitten, let’s duel’. Is that clear?”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied dutifully, his mouth twisting slightly at the nickname the boy had used. He deeply hoped that it wouldn’t be used in _any_ other situation – he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself otherwise. This close to using his magic…it was just about bearable.

“OK, good. The exemptions are as follows. You are allowed to attack me both physically and magically, as long as you do not hold the intent to kill, severely harm or control me. If I say ‘stop’, you are to stop immediately and drop your wand or be incapacitated by the collar. You are only allowed to use spells which are on the current syllabus at Hogwarts; that could appear on the final exams for each year. You are not allowed to use any spells which might silence me or deafen you as their effect. You are allowed to use healing spells on either me or yourself during the duel or immediately afterwards. If you think that you cannot continue the duel for whatever reason, you are to call out ‘stop’ and drop your wand. You are not allowed to use any wandless magic, ever. You are not allowed to touch my wand or the wand of anyone else. Do you understand these rules?”

“Yes, master,” Tom said, a slightly impatient note in his voice. He understood – his master wanted a school-type duel and wanted to make sure his slave couldn’t gain an advantage over him. Well, it might not be a very _interesting_ duel, but at least he would have access to his magic. He was almost salivating at the thought. The boy considered him for another _long_ moment, before nodding as if to himself and holding the wand out. He held it out tip first, which would normally be a deadly insult, but Tom really couldn’t care less: he had his _wand_ for the first time in _months_.

Holding it was like meeting an old friend again, a rush of pleasure far superior to the effect of the collar. He’d felt similarly when rising from the cauldron four years ago, but due to the horcruxes he had still held, all sensations had been muted to a fraction of their power. Not that he’d known that at the time – even the muted sensations had been far superior to the experience of being a wraith.

The memory of that time and the reminder of his new state made the old rage rise once more. He looked back at his master and knew that his eyes would be almost glowing blood-red. The boy stiffened slightly, but then a small smile grew at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s what I want to see – the fire.” He hesitated for a moment, then seemed to make a decision. “For today only, you are allowed to use the Cruciatus in the duel, if you wish. But if it hits, you may only hold it for a maximum of five seconds, and must not cast it more frequently than at one minute intervals or be incapacitated by the collar.” Tom almost couldn’t believe his ears. Was the boy really…? It appeared so. If anything, he felt even more eager for the duel to commence.

The boy seemed to pause for a moment as if he was having second thoughts, but then walked to the duelling platform, Tom following. A blood-thirsty smile grew on Tom’s face, and he was unable to force it away. In the end, he didn’t bother – it wasn’t as if the boy didn’t know or couldn’t guess that he deeply desired to cause pain. Taking in a deep breath and letting it out, the boy met his eyes.

“Ok, Kitten, let’s duel.” A non-verbal seventh year spell was out of Tom’s wand and heading towards the boy before he could blink, but he managed to deflect it with a _protego_ and a dodge. He retaliated swiftly with a hex that Tom batted away easily enough, but that opened him up to a follow-up spell. Tom was slightly impressed – that had been some quick spell-casting. But it wouldn’t save him.

They exchanged volleys of spells, both verbal and non-verbal, taking advantage of every opportunity they could. Most spells were deflected or dodged, but a few crept through. By three minutes into the duel, Tom’s right arm was useless from a curse he hadn’t been able to counter yet, so he’d switched to his left hand while Harry was bleeding from his nose and from a gash in his leg. The last proved to be his undoing as it caused him to miss a beat when his leg gave out briefly as he dodged. Tom took advantage to use one of his favourite spells.

“ _Crucio_ ,” he cast, putting behind his spell the full force of the rage he had built up over the last months of being treated like dirt, like a slave. He gloried in the screams that rent the air and the dark feedback of the spell. Then a searing pain cut through him, sharp enough to make him drop his wand – and therefore the spell – and crumple to the ground. The pain gripped him mercilessly for a few seconds before letting up.

When he looked up, his master was on his feet, the gash on his leg and his nose already fixed. Tom pushed himself to his knees, then looked at the boy, trying to see whether it would be safe to stand. After all, he’d just held the Cruciatus on his master for longer than the time proscribed, had gloried in it. Plus, Tom had a sneaky suspicion that Harry might have felt the Cruciatus Curse often enough to be able to tell how much force Tom had put behind it. In fact, Tom was rather surprised that he was already on his feet – as Lord Voldemort he had held Death Eaters under curses with less force for less time who weren’t able to stand directly after.

“I didn’t realise I’d held it for longer than five seconds, master,” he said, trying to cut off any reprimand before it happened. The boy looked at him searchingly, then shrugged.

“Doesn’t really matter if you did or didn’t. The fact is, you couldn’t hold it for longer than you did, so no harm was done.” Tom stared at him. Was that really it?

“Well?” his master said impatiently. “Get up, then. I haven’t said to stop yet, have I?” Tom pushed himself to his feet, not so steady himself, and nodded slightly.

“I suppose you will forbid me to use the Cruciatus, master,” he said, a note of mockery in his voice. The boy looked confused, which in turn confused Tom.

“Uh, no. Why?”

“…because it hurt?” suggested Tom, pointing out the obvious since it apparently needed to be done. Harry scoffed.

“Who do you think I am? Some pansy Death Eater who can’t take a bit of pain? If I can’t avoid the Cruciatus, I deserve to be hit by it. I’m able to control how long _you_ use it for, but I won’t be able to do that with anyone else.”

“You have decided to become an Auror, then?” guessed Tom. He quickly added on the requisite ‘master’ before his collar activated. It hadn’t been hard to work out why his master had been in a particularly bad mood over the past few days, not when he kept muttering to himself. Nevertheless, the boy looked taken aback at his words.

“No, I hadn’t. What made you think I had?” Tom shrugged at the question, but the boy didn’t seem to accept that as answer. “No, really. What made you think that?”

“I suppose,” he started slowly, “it was the knowledge that being an Auror would suit your personality, added to the realisation that you’re trying to use this duel to prepare for being in fights with others. Master.”

“Why do you say it suits my personality?” Tom looked at him, hoping that his expression conveyed his utter disbelief that the boy would ask him that question. “I mean, beyond the fact that I’ve spent the last two years hunting down your Death Eaters and horcruxes, that is, since that’s why I _didn’t_ think I’d want to be an Auror.” Mood souring at the reminder, Tom fought to keep the scowl off his face.

“How about the fact that, from what I’ve heard, even when I wasn’t involved, you seemed to spend more time chasing down dark wizards in Hogwarts than you did learning? Master.” His tone was a bit sharp, and the collar reminded him of that, but his master didn’t seem to care. He was off in his own little world. “Besides, what else would you do? Work in a shop?” he could barely hold the scoff inside at the thought. Harry Potter standing at the counter of a shop, smiling politely at every person who came inside…no. It just didn’t fit. The boy just shrugged.

“I hadn’t really got that far. I just didn’t want to be shoved into the role just because of my work during the war. Or because my dad was an Auror.” Tom tired of the conversation – he’d much rather be throwing curses at the boy than playing some sort of confidante.

“If it means anything, master, you have some talent with duelling. You managed to last three minutes against me just now. Most fully trained Aurors couldn’t say the same.” The boy scoffed.

“Yeah, but you’re restricted to Hogwarts level spells. It’s not a fair comparison.” Tom sighed in irritation.

“I’m not giving you another compliment, so you can stop fishing, Pot-master,” he snapped, but limited the amount of irritation leaking into his voice. When the collar didn’t punish him, he continued. “However, I will say this: duelling is not about the level of spell you use; it’s about how you use your repertoire.” The boy nodded thoughtfully.

“I suppose.”

“But, while we’re on the subject, shall we have a duel with a _little_ more challenge to it?” he asked hopefully. “Maybe raise the level to Auror spells, master?” The boy shot him a sharp look.

“We’ll extend which spells you can use once I’ve learnt them. Until I know exactly what a spell does, I’m not risking you using it in combat.”

“As you wish, master,” Tom replied slightly grumpily, but mostly happy to hear that this was likely to be a repeated event – he already felt worlds better after using his rage in that Cruciatus. The boy nodded shortly, then returned to his position on the stage.

“Ready?” he asked. Tom nodded. “Then let’s go.”

XXX

An hour later, Harry called a stop to their duels and retrieved Tom’s wand. The man gave it over reluctantly, but he did so nonetheless before returning to his cleaning. Harry watched him go. Lines of tension that had been in his back earlier had been released and the man in general seemed to have a lighter step. Harry himself felt better too. The frustration which had been plaguing him earlier seemed to have vanished. Its absence plus the unexpected conversation he’d had with Tom had given him some clarity on what to do next.

Maybe they were right, all these people who kept telling him that his personality suited him to being an Auror. He _had_ spent his formative years at Hogwarts chasing after one mystery or the other, despite the number of adults trying to stop him. And then, of course, he had spent the last two years combating dark forces in both the Death Eaters and the various defences around the horcruxes, not to mention the objects themselves. He hadn’t liked the person he had become who tortured Death Eaters, but then that shouldn’t really be part of an Auror’s job, surely? They had rules and regulations to follow in that regard, he thought.

As for the fighting, he had felt _alive_ again in the duels with Tom, despite losing three times out of four – the man did, after all, have a fifty year lead on him in terms of experience, even if he wasn’t allowed to use his full repertoire of spells. Somehow he knew that a career without any adrenaline would eventually bore him to death. Sure, he had definitely enjoyed rebuilding Hogwarts, but he wondered whether maybe a big part of that was just appreciating _Hogwarts_ and less to do with the type of magic itself.

But he still felt like he needed more information and he knew exactly who to contact. Going to the floo in the sitting room, he dropped a pinch of floo powder into the flames.

“Minister’s office, Ministry of Magic,” he said clearly, sticking his head in the green flames. It took a few seconds of nauseating whirling before the flames cleared to reveal Kingsley’s secretary’s office.

“Minister of Magic’s office. How can I help you?” a professional voice said. “Oh, Mr Potter. I didn’t realise you had an appointment.”

“Hi,” Harry said, smiling at the man on the other side. He felt a bit guilty that he didn’t know his name – he knew Greta who did the opening hours from Monday to Friday, but he didn’t know the two other secretaries who switched off to make sure that there was always someone in the office in case of emergency. “I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping to speak to Kingsley. Is he there?” The man smiled at him

“No, Mr Potter. I believe he’s at home – it’s the first Saturday he’s been able to take off since he accepted the job.” Well that made Harry almost rethink trying to contact him. If he didn’t worry that he’d lose his nerve by delaying, he would wait longer. But as it was… “Would you like me to take a message?”

“No thanks, I’ll try his home floo.”

“As you wish, Mr Potter. Have a good day,”

“Thanks, you too.” With the end of the pleasantries, Harry pulled his head out of the floo. Then, taking another pinch, he repeated the process with Kingsley’s home address and password. After the war, Kingsley had given it to him, telling him to make contact if he ever needed help or advice. ‘It’s the least I can do, after what you accomplished’ he had insisted. Harry hadn’t used the information until now, but it seemed like a good time.

“Harry?” Kingsley’s voice came after another sickening whirl of green flames.

“Hi Kingsley, I was wondering if I could talk to you. I’m considering applying for the Aurors.” A big smile broke out over the older man’s face.

“That’s great, Harry! Sure, no problem. Why don’t you step through – it’ll probably be more comfortable for you than kneeling in your fireplace.” Harry definitely agreed – his knees were already protesting the position. Withdrawing his head, he took a moment to regain his equilibrium before properly stepping through.

Emerging into Kingsley’s sitting room, he found himself appreciating its warm and cozy colours, so unlike the dark and foreboding theme in Grimmauld Place. It wasn’t anything like The Burrow which was always chaotic, but the neutral tones of ochre, terracotta and cream along with the good quality, but understated, furniture gave the impression of being somewhere further south. The colourful patterns of the rug and wall hangings gave a bit of excitement to the room in their contrast. Kingsley saw him looking.

“Do you like them? They were gifts from my grandparents.”

“They’re very interesting,” said Harry truthfully. He wasn’t sure he’d call them pretty, exactly – the patterns were too complex and intricate for that – but they certainly added to the room. Kingsley seemed to get what he was saying as he laughed in response.

“They’re that, it’s true. Now, care for a spot of tea?” Harry agreed and thanked him. Kingsley invited him to sit down in one of the extremely comfy chairs before disappearing for a moment. Coming back with tea, Kingsley joined Harry on a chair. An expectant silence fell.

“So,” Harry started, searching for how to begin. “Um, how would you describe being an Auror?” He winced at the lame start but Kingsley indulged him.

“It’s frustrating,” he started honestly. “It’s stressful. It’s hard work. If you do it, prepare to give up on a life when you’re leading a hot investigation.” Harry wondered at Kingsley’s comments – he thought the man _wanted_ Harry to become an Auror, not put him off. “But, it’s also deeply satisfying. I can only think of two other careers where you know every day that you are making a difference to people’s lives – healing and teaching.” OK, that sounded more like it. Kingsley’s eyes took on a distant cast.

“As an Auror, we are the line of protection between the general populace and those who would prey on them – we are the protectors of the sheep from the ravenous wolves who would tear them to pieces.” Harry thought privately that ‘sheep’ as a descriptor for the general population was more on the nose than Kingsley perhaps intended. “We are the well-trained, experienced, and dedicated force that ensures the abusers and predators of the magical world never feel too comfortable, never take control. We are both the Ministry’s best weapon and their conscience.” Their conscience? Harry’s question evidently showed on his face as Kingsley expanded.

“Yes, their conscience. Did you know that every Auror has to pass a course on ethics? Otherwise they fail automatically. Because of our training in ethics as well as magical abilities, investigative skills and tactics, we are able to hold the Ministry to account when it goes too far.” Harry’s face must have expressed his doubt, considering how the Aurors hadn’t stood up against Voldemort. “Recent times are a bit of an exception – the Aurors had been gutted initially by the first war with Voldemort and then subsequent cuts to funding over previous years. To make things worse, Voldemort managed to turn some of the senior Aurors to his cause due to recent policies making the Aurors more answerable to areas of the Ministry which the Death Eaters had corrupted. As a result, the chaos meant that the Auror force was unable to fulfil one of its most important roles at the worst of times. But it has done so in the past. One of those times actually heralded the previous end of slavery.” Harry’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Wait, what?” Kingsley smiled.

“Indeed. As you may already know, years ago the same type of slavery was used for the worst of criminals as has been invoked once again to punish Voldemort and his supporters. But in the early 19th century, the demand for slaves overtook the numbers of criminals sentenced to slavery every year. In its greed, the Ministry decided to lower the bar at which criminals were enslaved instead of fined or given a sentence of indentured servitude.” Seeing’s Harry’s expression, he quickly clarified. “Indentured servitude was _not_ the same thing as slavery, I promise you. As I was saying, the Ministry was greedy. At the worst point in the 1850’s, even a petty criminal who was caught stealing from a shop twice could be sentenced to years as a slave.”

“The Aurors decided that enough was enough. As a group, they agreed that what was being perpetrated was exploitation, not justice, and they refused to be party to it any longer. Without the Aurors, the Ministry struggled to catch the criminals, and when there started being blockades of highly-trained wizards preventing the trials from taking place, the Ministry was unable to do anything but acquiesce. That was when Azkaban, the recently conquered fortress of the Dark Lord Herpo the Foul started being used.” Harry thought that over and winced a bit.

“And now slavery’s back.” Kingsley shook his head.

“No, it’s not. Not in the same way, at least. As a punishment from Lady Magic Herself, we must accept that the sentences are just, but once these slaves finish their sentences, no more criminals will be sentenced to the same punishment.” Harry nodded, considering Kingsley’s words.

“It’s true that one reason I’ve been a bit reticent to choose to apply is because I hated what the Ministry was doing during my Fifth and Sixth years under Fudge and Scrimangeor. Not to mention what happened in the last two years.” Kingsley inclined his head.

“It was a travesty,” he agreed. “Which is one reason I have decided to become interim Minister for Magic, and then aim to win the election in a couple of months. I want to make sure that the Auror department is given the funding and support it needs to become that powerful force it was not that long ago. If I didn’t think I could do more good in this position, I never would have left the Aurors.” Harry nodded slowly. “Harry…What’s holding you back? I thought you’ve wanted to apply for years. Sirius talked about it in your Fifth year.” He said the last with a note of apology, as if knowing the sharp bolt of pain that went through Harry’s heart at the mention of his deceased godfather.

The pain wasn’t even for Sirius, not really. It was for never having been really able to get to know one of the last connections to his parents. It was for the man who was unjustly imprisoned for nearly the whole of his adult life, and even after escaping the physical prison, found himself still imprisoned by fear and hatred. And Harry realised anew the desire he had felt all those years ago to make sure that such injustice never happened again.

“It’s been hard to decide,” Harry started slowly, “because the last two years have been so terrible. Constantly being faced with the deaths of those I fought with…constantly being on the edge of despair and a sense of fighting against the clock…the knowledge that if I failed, thousands would suffer, and that I was failing every day I didn’t find a solution…it crushed me.” It was the first time he had actually put his feelings into words. During the war, he hadn’t even allowed himself to acknowledge his emotions, perhaps out of fear that if he did, he would just lie down and not get up again. Then, after the war, he had been so wrapped up in rebuilding and mourning that he hadn’t had a chance to really feel it. And perhaps there had been an element of guilt that he should feel those emotions when there were so many people who couldn’t because they were dead. Because he had been too slow. Because he hadn’t been willing to follow Dumbledore’s plan. Sure he hadn’t known whether it would work, still didn’t, but just the possibility that the war could have been over a year ago…

Kingsley seemed to sense that he was in deep thought because he didn’t disturb Harry for a long moment. Then he started speaking, his solemn and deep voice just the thing Harry needed to pull him out of his thoughts.

“Harry, I can’t say that there’s never a sense of fighting against the clock, nor can I say that there’s never a feeling of guilt, of failure when chasing a criminal and finding broken bodies of people you were too slow to save. But what I will say is that a war isn’t the best guide for living in times of peace. Being an Auror isn’t all high-adrenaline chases and duels. In fact, that’s perhaps only five percent of our job.” He chuckled slightly and Harry found the sound lifted his spirits slightly. “I’d say at least four fifths of our job is paperwork, unfortunately. Putting in requests for information from other departments, requests for search warrants or arrest warrants, reports of the actions you’ve taken, action plans for the avenues you’re going to search, poring through old trial transcripts and criminal records….It’s a lot of hard grind before you actually start chasing your man.

“And as for the losses, again, I can’t say that an Auror is never killed, but I can say that in a normal situation, it’s rare. We only accept the best, and we make sure that our Aurors’ skills are kept sharp, even those on a desk job, as well as being outfitted with the best protective equipment we can afford. Then as well, because Aurors always investigate in pairs, there’s rarely the occasion where an Auror is put in a situation where they will die before being given medical care. I can tell you that the Deaths Eaters were not good examples of the general abilities of criminals – most criminals don’t have the power to throw out a Killing Curse at all, let alone being like Inner Circle members who were able to send out multiple in a single duel. In fact, the last time we saw something like that was during the war with Grindleward.” Harry nodded slowly.

“And do you think I’d be a good fit?” he smiled depreciatingly, “I mean, I’m not exactly known for being good at following rules.” Kingsley shrugged.

“In the end, you’re the only one who can answer that, Harry. But for what it’s worth, from what I’ve seen, I’d be proud to work alongside you.”

Harry felt a blooming of warmth inside and tried to hide it behind the cup of tea. Kingsley looked up from Harry and focused beyond him.

“Severus, why don’t you come on in,” he said warmly. Harry twisted around, his stomach dropping. How had he not considered that by coming to Kingsley’s he’d risk running into Severus Snape? The other man’s expression was _not_ reassuring, either. In fact, the frown looked rather set in stone.

“I guess I’ll go,” he said, hurriedly standing up and putting the half-finished cup of tea down. “Thanks for the tea and chat, Kingsley.” The dark-skinned man put his hand out.

“Wait, Harry, you don’t have to go.” Harry shook his head, still backing away towards the fireplace.

“It’s OK, I don’t want to make things…make things worse.” And he didn’t. From what he’d learnt from the guidebook, slaves were expected to be respectful and polite to any friends their master had around. Snape had never been polite to Harry, and the idea of it being forced because of an action Harry had taken, after all the man had done for their side….Well, he would never _like_ Snape – the man had an abrasive personality at the best of times and his pettiness at bullying Harry and others at school simply because of personal dislike had always rankled – but he could appreciate the danger Snape had put himself in time and time again to get them information, to protect others, even fighting on the front lines once his loyalties had been exposed. He didn’t deserve to be a slave, and he didn’t deserve to be forced to act like one either.

“Harry, it’s OK-“ the Minister tried to say, but Harry cut him off.

“Kingsley, I’ve read the book as much as you have – I know what Snape will be forced to do if I stay.”

“But-“

“Potter, it would benefit you to stop acting like a dunderhead and _listen_ to what Kingsley is saying.” That smooth, irritated voice with the same note of derision as always was what actually got through to Harry. He stopped moving towards the fireplace and instead whipped around to stare at the Potions Master open-mouthed.

“But…what?” he managed. Yes, the collar was there – thick and black against his neck with a number ‘2’ on it. So Snape hadn’t managed to get free somehow.

“Eloquent as always,” Snape said snidely. Harry just blinked. Kingsley sighed.

“As I was trying to say, it’s not a problem for you to stay.” Harry’s gaze snapped to the amused man.

“But how? How is he able to act… _normally_? He called you by your name! Tom’s forced to call me master and speak respectfully.” Looking between the two while he spoke, Harry caught the flash of satisfaction in Snape’s eyes as he spoke of what Tom was reduced to.

“What have you learned about the slave collar, Harry?” Harry shrugged.

“That there are a number of basic rules coded in which it enforces, and that I can add or change the rules as I see fit.”

“Exactly.” Harry frowned. He didn’t see what was ‘exactly’ about it. How did that mean that Snape was able to completely ignore all those rules? Snape sighed in exasperation.

“The collar is an extension of its master’s will, Potter,” he said pointedly. Harry thought over those words.

“Oh!” he realised. “Then that means…” he looked at Kingsley. The man nodded.

“Yes, I’ve made it clear that Snape is not obliged to follow any of those rules in the house.”

“None of them?” clarified Harry. “Like, he can use his magic,” Kingsley nodded, “…attack and _kill_ you?” Kingsley smiled in amusement as Snape snorted.

“Harry, we’ve been working together as colleagues for four years – I highly doubt he’s going to want to attack or kill me. And if he does, I’ll probably deserve it.” Harry shook his head slightly, stunned at what he had just learned. Then he realised something.

“You said _in the house_ …” Kingsley’s smile disappeared.

“Yes. And that’s why I won’t force him to leave the house – once in a public or semi-public place, Severus would be obliged to follow the rules or risk having a complaint made about him, causing an intervention by the Ministry.” Harry nodded once more. Then, turning back to Snape, he took in a breath. Letting it out, he decided to act like the man hadn’t been enslaved. Though, first…

“Sir, I’m sorry this has happened to you,” he said sincerely. “If I’d been given the option of choosing who would undergo this punishment, I promise you wouldn’t have been on the list.” Those dark eyes seemed to bore into him for a moment, and Harry suddenly remembered that if Snape was allowed to use his magic, he would also be able to use legilimency. But then he thought that he would probably at least feel the attack, even if his rudimentary barriers wouldn’t be enough to keep the man out, so it probably wasn’t that. Just a very searching gaze.

“No need to apologise, Potter,” the Potions Master said his tone surprisingly conciliatory. “I would have undergone much worse to know that the war was finished.” There was another flash of that same dark satisfaction. “And if I might say so, the knowledge that my erstwhile master has found himself the chattel of the boy who defeated him is…rather delicious. Even had Kingsley not been kind enough to ensure that I did not have to endure the punishment many of my compatriots are no doubt suffering, the satisfaction at that knowledge would have sustained me for a long time.” Harry suddenly wondered whether Snape thought that he was torturing Tom all the time.

“I’m not, you know,” he said quickly. Snape raised an eyebrow. “Torturing him, that is. Sorry to disappoint,” he continued, slightly defiantly, because if they expected him to do that… To his surprise Snape actually started chuckling.

“I know that, you stupid boy. I did teach you for six years – I know you’re not the type to take advantage of your enemy being helpless. No, I speak of the daily struggle _Tom_ no doubt goes through – the struggle to submit to the humiliation of calling you ‘master’ and whatever menial task you set him, or be forced by the collar. His rage building as you refuse to treat him with the awe and reverence that he feels is his right, but his inability to express that without risking punishment. I speak of the fear of losing his mind to the collar’s coercion, his despair at this being endless for him….” Harry was a bit uneasy at the look of glee on Snape’s face, unwilling to think of his actions in that light. He cleared his throat and changed the direction of the conversation.

“So, what do you do while Kingsley’s at work?” Snape blinked and the almost rapturous expression was wiped clean from his face as if it had never been there.

“I make and experiment with potions.”

“Oh.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck, not sure where to go from there. Kingsley rescued him.

“Do you have any other questions about the Aurors, Harry?”

“Just one, really. Do you think Robards would accept me in the program? This late? I know they’ve already started, and I still want to take my NEWTs.”

“I’m sure he’d be willing to take _you_ in,” Kingsley assured him. Harry heard a sarcastic murmur of ‘Saint Potter’ coming from Snape, but he ignored it.

“Without using my name, without any sort of celebrity status. Do you think he’d take me in?” For some reason, it was important to Harry that this wasn’t some sort of special allowance made for the ‘Man-who-Conquered’ or something. If he couldn’t get in this time, so be it. He would try again in the future when applications opened up again. Kingsley took a moment to think.

“To be honest, he probably would: we’re so short on Aurors at the moment. You’re not that far behind – the other candidates only started two weeks ago. If you had access to the memories of their lectures and watched them during your free time, along with doing the assignments you’ve missed, it should be possible.” Kingsley eyed him for a moment. “If you choose this route, you probably won’t be sleeping much for the next month,” he warned. Harry shrugged.

“It’s worth it,” he replied honestly. And he suddenly realised he truly felt that way – after months of waffling one way or the other, not knowing what to do, it was immensely freeing to finally have a goal. Kingsley nodded.

“Then write your letter of application ASAP. I will speak to Robards on Monday and make it clear that you’re not expecting any sort of favouritism, but that you’re prepared to work hard. Is that satisfactory?”

“Very,” said Harry with a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, Kingsley. For everything.” The man smiled back at him.

“No problem, Harry.” Harry headed towards the floo, but paused for a moment before using the powder. Snape’s clear glee at Tom’s position had made him uneasy…but on the other hand, he could understand it. After all, because of Voldemort, either directly or indirectly, he had lost the woman he loved – first emotionally and then to death. He had been tortured countless times. He had been forced to do actions he no doubt personally hated to keep his cover. He had had to bow and scrape while keeping his loathing hidden. It was perhaps that understanding that made Harry offer his next words.

“If…if you would like to come around for dinner, I can assure you that no one would complain about Snape’s behaviour to the Ministry. Then you could say and do whatever you wanted to Tom. Get a bit of closure.” Both of them just stared at him for a moment and he shifted uneasily under their gazes.

“Perhaps I was wrong,” Snape said softly, a calculating glint to his eyes. “Perhaps you have more of a capacity for cruelty than I had thought.” Harry shivered slightly at the words, though from Snape, they actually sounded like a compliment. Kingsley was more unreadable.

“Thank you for the offer, Harry,” he replied eventually, not giving a hint as to whether he actually appreciated it or not. “We’ll consider it.” Harry nodded and then headed back through the floo.

Going to the area of the sitting room he had designated as his study, he started to write the letter to Robards. He then spent a good half an hour constructing a letter to send off to the Head Auror – it was surprisingly difficult to do. He wanted to avoid sounding like he was expecting a favour because he had defeated Voldemort, but at the same time convince the man of his sincerity. He started a pyramid of screwed up balls of parchment as he rejected one effort after another.

By the time he had sent the letter off, it was dinnertime, so he made his way down to the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively at the scents wafting up the stairs.

XXX

Tom watched his master through hooded eyes. They were renovating one of the rooms, as normal. Harry was doing the spell work to detect anything dangerous and then either disenchant it, kill it (if living) or vanish it, whichever was most appropriate. Then Tom would move in and start the cleaning. He hated it – knowing that the boy could just wave his wand and vanish it all in a moment instead of the hours he had to spend rankled.

But he hated it slightly less than the usual cleaning – at least when he finished this one, it actually looked like he’d had an effect. Cleaning the normal occupied areas was an exercise in frustration – as soon as he’d cleaned it, he’d turn around and find more dirt. Or Harry would walk through and drop mess as he went. Though it looked like that would be the only cleaning he’d be doing soon – there were only three more rooms after this one to clean.

Nevertheless, his master hadn’t been behaving normally today. He kept going downstairs every so often, then come back up a few moments later looking more and more impatient. Tom just tried to stay as inconspicuous as possible, hoping slightly that if the boy got too frustrated, he would want another duel.

Ah, how wonderful that had been! Feeling his magic run through him…engage in the give and take of a duel that he had always enjoyed…. He was brought out of his thoughts as Harry once more went downstairs. This time, he didn’t come up soon after so Tom decided to follow him down. Leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, he watched as the boy looked at two letters. From his vantage point, he saw the symbol of the Auror’s office on one and Hogwarts on the other. So, the boy had decided to go for the Aurors after all, had he? His master turned slightly and then jumped as he noticed Tom in the doorway. He’d have to work on his situational awareness a bit if he was going to join the Aurors…

“I got in, Tom!” he exclaimed, a grin going from ear to ear. Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Into where, master?” As if he didn’t know.

“Into the Aurors! Well, into the Auror recruitment process, anyway. Isn’t that great?!”

“Indeed,” Tom murmured. Actually, it was pretty good: the busier his master was, the more he’d be out of the house, the more Tom would be able to do research – when he was permitted to do research, that was. Unfortunately, it seemed like history books were _not_ considered novels, though Tom privately thought they really should be considering the historical inaccuracies in some of them.

“And the other letter, master?” Tom inquired, more interested in this one if he was honest. Harry waved a hand.

“My results from the assessments last week at Hogwarts. Nothing unexpected.” He absentmindedly tossed the letter to Tom, looking more closely at the one from the Auror office. Tom scanned the results. Apparently the assessments had been graded according to the standards required by the NEWTs As the boy had said, little unexpected here. Apart from in Potions, the practical scores were significantly better than the theory scores – Defence and Charms both being Os, and an E for Transfiguration. Even Potions was an A in practical which signalled that Harry could take those practical exams now and pass at the least, though not necessarily well in the case of Potions. The theory, however, ranged between Poor for Defence, Dreadful for Charms and Transfiguration, and Troll for Potions.

“Master, why exactly are your Potions scores so…poor?” he asked with a note of distaste. The boy glanced up at him.

“Because I had a Potions teacher who hated my guts for five years…and I spent Sixth year cheating,” he admitted.

“You’re going to have a lot of work to catch up, then,” Tom pointed out. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I know. “

“And why is your theory so bad when your practical is…not terrible?” At this, his master glared at him.

“Hmm, let’s think about this,” he started angrily. “What exactly have I spent the last two years doing? Chasing horcruxes and Death Eaters. What have I _not_ spent the last two years doing? Learning theory at school. I’m better at casting spells than the theory behind them. Big surprise.” Tom could see the rage rekindling in him and desperately searched for a way to soothe it – so far, his master getting angry with him had led to nothing but pain, and he didn’t feel the need to test his boundaries so much after releasing so much of his stress recently.

“Why don’t I teach you?” The words were blurted out without real thought, some frightened bit of his brain latching onto the first suggestion that might help him. The boy stared at him, his anger completely derailed. Tom smirked internally, somewhat relieved that it had worked rather than making him angrier.

“What?” his master asked in confusion, perhaps wondering if he had heard it correctly.

“Why don’t I teach you Potions and Magical Theory, master?” repeated Tom, warming to the idea. The more he thought about it, the more he liked his desperate suggestion. If he could set himself up as a trusted teacher, that might be a way for him to gain more freedom. After all, the boy had talked about _trust_ in their first proper conversation a few weeks ago – what better way to do it than provide the boy with all the information and expertise he could need? Yes, once more it was proof of his genius that even in times of immense pressure, he could still create the perfect plan. Now he just had to convince his master of its benefits. The frown on his face wasn’t encouraging, but on the other hand, he hadn’t outright rejected it. Tom could work with that.

“Can you?” was the boy’s first – insulting – query. Tom stopped himself from bristling at the slight to his academic excellence, confining his offence to a small eye roll.

“I _did_ get Os in all my subjects at both OWL and NEWT levels, master,” he pointed out. “And I took seven NEWT subjects – Defence, Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Arithmancy, Rituals, and Ancient Runes.”

“Rituals?” Of course he picked up on that one. Tom waved his hand dismissively. It wouldn’t do to look too eager, though the thought of the boy wanting to learn about rituals almost made him salivate.

“A subject that the old fool did away with once he became headmaster. But, more to the point, I am perfectly capable of tutoring you in your weaker areas, master. I’m not the Potions Master that _Severus_ is,” he couldn’t help hissing slightly when saying the traitor’s name, “but I continued studying even after graduating Hogwarts, albeit in somewhat specific directions.” He neglected to mention that those directions would almost certainly not appeal to the Light’s Saviour.

“I bet you did,” the boy muttered, eyeing him somewhat dubiously. “Alright, say we do this – what do you get out of it. Don’t even try to pretend you’d do this out of the goodness of your _heart_.” Tom couldn’t help from smirking at that – the boy might be a Gryffindor, but he had evidently learned _something_ about Slytherins. Time to use a judicious bit of truth to sweeten the pot. Shrugging almost disinterestedly, he answered.

“I’m bored. Cleaning is…not the most scintillating of tasks.” Harry smirked in response.

“Don’t I know it. But it’s good for you, or should I say your ego, to be crawling on the floor, wiping up dirt.” Tom gritted his teeth at the wave of anger that pulsed through him. Clearly the boy saw it and was satisfied, because he continued in a slightly less mocking tone. “I’m not going to let you do anything you want, just because you’re helping me out,” he warned. Tom lowered his eyes.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, master,” he replied demurely. The snort he heard as a response was both irritating and somewhat endearing – frustrating as it could be, there was something refreshing about someone who could see through his bullshit. He decided not to respond. The hook and bait were set – now to see if he could catch anything. There was a period of silence as the boy evidently thought things over.

“If you taught me stuff, how would you do it?” Tom shrugged, looking back up.

“Well, first we’ll need to see what you already know, and what you need to learn. Potions theory is best taught with the practical – in order to really master the subject, you have to understand the way the ingredients interact and why they are treated the way they are. The others, well, from the fact that your practical scores are so high, I would imagine that you know _how_ to cast something, but not _why_ it has to be done that way. We will explore that while revising the spells that you have learned.”

“There is a Potions lab here,” mused Harry. “I’ve been leaving it until later because it’s one of the worst areas, but maybe it’s time to sort it out.” Putting the letter from the Auror office down, he walked out of the kitchen, his steps so full of energy, Tom wondered that he didn’t end up hopping from foot to foot. Following a bit more sedately, Tom allowed himself a small triumphant smile. Hook, line and sinker.

XXX

The Potions lab was not as bad as Harry had implied: it was worse. They had spent about ten minutes finishing the room they had been doing – which had made Tom seethe once more as his earlier thoughts of the pointlessness of his cleaning by hand were proven – then moved on to the Potions lab. It was down in the basement of the house. Tom’s master had questioned why Potions labs always seemed to be in the dungeons with exasperation, giving Tom his first chance to prove his knowledge. He had explained how with proper ventilation charms, the lowest floor of a building was the best place for containing possibly significant explosions. Not to mention that the idea of a spilled potion dripping through the floorboards into the rooms below was stuff of nightmares.

The reason for the terrible state of the lab was, as expected, because of the neglect of numerous magical ingredients which had not only attracted various pests, but also allowed a devil’s snare to grow happily. Tom stayed on the sidelines, his mouth twisted in irritation as he had to allow Harry to deal with the magical threats: without his magic he was useless at those tasks, and the thought rankled.

Of course, even once they had cleared the room, Tom was put to work sweeping up the debris and cleaning the long-unused equipment, they suddenly realised that due to the neglect, they didn’t actually have any ingredients to start Harry’s first lesson with.

“Never mind, master,” Tom said eventually after they had exchanged looks – the first time they had actually been thinking along the same lines that either of them could remember. “We can talk through your understanding of some potions for today, and go and get some potions ingredients tomorrow when the shops are open.”

“Can’t,” the boy said. Tom frowned.

“Why not? Master.” Harry shrugged.

“I’ve got Hogwarts tomorrow.” True. Tom hadn’t thought about that.

“Then Tuesday.”

“The Aurors all day.” So he was starting immediately? That was quick…

“When are you going to Auror training? Master,” Tom asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“Every day from Tuesday to Friday.”

“Then next Saturday will be the first opportunity to buy potions ingredients,” Tom concluded. “Unless you wish to owl order them, master.”

“Why don’t we do that, then?” The boy seemed to perk up at the idea of _not_ going shopping. Tom barely held in a snort.

“We can…unless you want to actually get a decent price for decent ingredients.” Tom took great pleasure in raising his hopes before cruelly dashing them. And it wasn’t as if the collar could punish him for it – he had told the complete truth. Potions Masters like _Severus_ might be able to get decent ingredients delivered to him, but that was simply because the apothecaries knew that if they tried to cheat him, not only would they lose his custom, but they’d probably also become ingredients _themselves_.

“Fine,” the boy agreed grumpily. “We’ll go out next Saturday. But for now…” he trailed off expectantly, sitting down in one of the chairs in the room.

“May I…?” Tom asked, waving at the other chair. The boy nodded shortly, so he quickly took his place, appreciating not having to kneel or stand in his master’s presence for once.

“First, master – ” Tom cut himself off. Here was another opportunity – maybe he could rid himself of the hated ‘respectful’ appellation. “May I call you something other than ‘master’? If I’m teaching you, it feels…strange.” The boy took his sweet time in considering it, but finally acquiesced.

“Fine, call me Harry. But only when you’re teaching me. I quite like hearing ‘master’ from your lips,” he finished, slightly maliciously. Forcing himself not to react to the jibe, Tom reminded himself that it was a victory if he didn’t need to use ‘master’ every other sentence or risk being punished.

“Thank you, Harry,” he said, humbly enough that the boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Smirking inwardly at eliciting a reaction, he continued briskly. “What is the difference between an OWL level brewer and a NEWT level brewer?” The boy eyed him dubiously.

“Uh, a NEWT level brewer is better?” Tom held the eye roll in with great effort.

“But what _makes_ a NEWT level brewer better?” Seeing the blank incomprehension, he felt like sighing. Truly _Severus_ had clearly been a terrible teacher if _this_ was the result of his efforts. Not that it was surprising, really – people like _Severus_ who had a natural talent for Potions would never understand the struggles of those who were not naturally talented. Add that to his general acerbic personality and inability to suffer fools, and it was a recipe for disaster, or at least, disastrous teaching. That any students managed to graduate with a NEWT in Potions was testament, Tom felt, more to their ability to endure and learn _despite_ the teacher than _because_ of him.

“Um, they can do harder potions?”

“Yes, Harry, but _why_ can they do harder potions?”

“I don’t know,” the boy exclaimed angrily. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

“Because,” answered Tom with remarkable patience, in his own opinion, “there is a vast difference between an OWL level brewer and a NEWT level brewer and it is necessary to recognise the difference before attempting to surmount it.” Seeing the anger born of frustration had disappeared from the boy’s eyes, he nodded sharply before continuing.

“By gaining a passing grade at OWL level, the brewer announces to the world that he or she is capable of producing passable basic potions, that is, potions which will have the desired effect on the drinker without causing unintended side effects. The difference between a simple A at OWL level and an O is that of potency. Due to the O student’s superior skills at brewing, his potion is significantly more potent than that of the A student. The criteria for a passing grade at NEWT level is not simply being capable of brewing a passable version of a more complex potion; instead, it is that the brewer must _understand_ why certain steps are necessary, why the ingredients must be prepared in a specific way. It is why no Potions Master would ever take an apprentice with less than an O at NEWT level – a Potions Master is such because he or she is capable of _changing_ potions, and as such must have an intimate understanding of _all_ components of potions. Can you think of any reason why a Potions Master might be necessary, Harry?”

Harry startled as if surprised to be asked a question.

“Er…To make a new potion?”

“Are you asking me or telling me, Harry?” Tom fought to keep his tone neutral – he had always disliked it when people answered him with a question. The dirty look thrown his way at the comment reminded him, however, that this was not just one of his students – this was his master, and if he pissed him off, he would be in pain. The thought brought him abruptly out of the pleasant mind-set he had fallen into – he had always enjoyed teaching when he had a student who was worth his time. Harry was not someone he would have _chosen_ to take under his wing, but needs must. He would do well to tone down his sometimes biting criticism, though.

“Well?” Harry said pointedly, looking at Tom warningly. He took the hint. He was still the slave, even if he was the teacher, he thought bitterly.

“Making a new potion is certainly one of a Potion Master’s roles. Can you think of any others?” The boy thought for a moment.

“What about making potions taste better?” That actually startled a chuckle out of Tom. True…but he would dare Harry to have the courage to ask a Potions Master to do something as puerile as _that_. “For children,” added Harry, glaring at Tom. That stopped Tom’s laughter in its tracks. That was actually a good idea. “I wonder why it hasn’t been done before – I bet there are loads of children who refuse to take potions because they taste horrible.” Tom conceded the point.

“Perhaps, but I believe that it’s already been done with the potions that are able to be altered for taste without being altered for effectiveness. Unfortunately, most of the most important ingredients in the usual healing potions taste bad, and removing them or adding in sufficient numbers of other ingredients to change the taste renders the potion ineffective or downright dangerous. But that was a good idea. Indeed, healing is one area where Potions Masters are always welcome, though for a different reason than the one you mentioned. What do you think might happen if a patient is required to take a potion which contains ingredients they are allergic to?” Tom saw the light dawn on Harry’s face.

“I see, so a Potions Master is employed to find a different recipe which has the same effectiveness, but a different ingredient from the one the person is allergic to,” he mused. Tom nodded.

“Indeed. As you can imagine, it is not an easy process, nor is it necessarily guaranteed to succeed, but for those who are passionate about Potions, it is a rewarding one.” He left a few moments of silence to allow Harry to absorb the information so far.

“The half-blood Prince,” he heard the boy mutter. Tom frowned in confusion.

“What did you say, master? Harry,” he quickly corrected himself, horrified at his slip. Was the collar already managing to indoctrinate him without him even realising? He was brought out of his thoughts before he managed to actually start panicking by _Harry_ ’s voice. The boy clearly hadn’t noticed what he’d said.

“The half-blood Prince. You know I said I spent Sixth year cheating?” Tom inclined his head – he did recall that. “Well, it was because of a used Potions book I was given because I hadn’t thought I was getting into the class, so hadn’t bought a copy. There were all sorts of edits to it – different ways of preparing ingredients, adding an extra stir or waiting a few seconds longer to add an ingredient, things like that.”

“And they worked?” Tom asked, interested despite himself. For these to be in a Sixth year textbook, it would have had to have belonged to a real prodigy if he was making workable edits at that age. Harry nodded.

“Not only worked, they improved the potion. Some of the edits improved it significantly.” Tom’s eyebrows went up.

“Whose book did you say it was? I wonder if I knew them.” Harry chuckled, though there was a note of mockery in it.

“Oh, you definitely knew them. The half-blood Prince. Severus Snape. The man who turned against you because you killed my mother.” Tom closed his eyes in frustration at himself. Of course. It would be _him_. He’d forgotten for a moment that _Severus_ ’s mother’s maiden name had been Prince, otherwise it would have been obvious. Well, he’d always known the man had been a prodigy. That was, in the end, the main reason he had been admitted into the Death Eaters, the reason for Voldemort taking a greater interest in him and teaching him magic he would never have dreamed of. And look at how he had been repaid for his _kindness_.

He opened his eyes to see Harry looking at him intently, no doubt interested in seeing the reaction to his intentionally provoking words. Determined that his master wouldn’t have any more control over him than he already did, Tom made sure to push down all his rage at the betrayal of one he had thought was loyal to him and him alone, regardless of the role he played at Hogwarts. Down, down until he could feel but a hint of heat keeping his belly warm with hate.

“Yes, that is what I am trying to explain. Severus was a prodigy, and the fact that he was making the kind of edits in Sixth year that most people would start considering during their mastery studies demonstrates that, but the idea is sound. A NEWT level student is not expected to be able to produce workable edits to a potion, let alone improve a potion. They are, however, expected to understand enough of the interactions between potion ingredients, their preparation and the method of combining them to at least suggest edits which will not make the potion explode or turn it into a poison. In addition, they are required to be able to recognise a number of potions by their colour or smell, and brew an antidote to various poisons based on their reactions to a set of standard tests.” Harry looked despairing.

“And I’m supposed to learn all of that in one year?” Tom smirked, his enjoyment at Harry’s misfortune managing to lift his mood slightly from the depths it had sunk to after talking about _him_.

“You will,” he reassured, “if you work hard. Now, we don’t have any ingredients, but we can talk through what you already know about interactions. So, let’s go back to basics. The Cure for Boils, the first potion you ever brew in Hogwarts, why exactly are the snake fangs ground into a fine powder? Why can they not be ground merely into a coarse powder, or not ground at all?”

XXX

Harry slumped at the table while Tom made dinner, looking unseeingly into the distance. OK, that had been…confusing as hell. And also, he thought he’d learned more about Potions in two hours than he had done during his entire career at Hogwarts. Not that that was a surprise, bloody Snape. Still, if Tom was to be believed, he had been a real prodigy in Potions, not just very good at them. Maybe that’s why he had never explained all of this – he expected it to be instinctual like it probably was for him.

They had talked through the Cure for Boils recipe and then another few potions from First year. By the end of the two hours, Harry was able to see how some of the common ingredients reacted in different ways according to their preparation or when they were added and with what. He also realised something he hadn’t noticed in First year – they had only used a few ingredients. But because each of the ingredients was prepared differently in each potion or was added at a different stage or with a different combination of ingredients, it created very different results. Still, he had noticed a couple of commonalities already. He resigned himself to poring over loads of potions recipes in the hope that he would notice the patterns. Maybe Slughorn would be able to give him some advice when he went to Hogwarts the next day…

But one reason it had been confusing as hell was because…Tom was actually _good_ at it. Teaching, that is. He had some kind of…charisma when he spoke passionately. His voice was so engaging, Harry had almost stopped listening to the words he was saying, so enraptured was he by its tone. But then Tom had seemed to notice his attention wandering somehow and had swiftly regained it with a question.

Harry found his mind flashing back to when he had been in Sixth year and Dumbledore had shown him memories of Voldemort, to that memory where the Dark Lord had asked for the teaching position at Hogwarts. For the first time, he wondered whether any of Voldemort’s motivation for applying had been because of genuinely wanting to teach. And he also found himself imagining what it might have been like if he’d had Professor Riddle as his Defence teacher…

Looking over at the man, he absentmindedly watched his graceful movements as he monitored the pots and the precision of his movements as he chopped vegetables. Tom had clearly not appreciated the mention of Severus Snape, Harry thought. He’d hidden it well, but Harry had been watching closely and had seen the hints of anger and something else which had passed over his face. He wondered whether it had been a good idea the previous day to invite Snape and Kingsley over…Well, it was too late now. Maybe they’d never take him up on the invitation, anyway. Besides, like it or not, and Harry wasn’t sure whether he _was_ actually starting to like it, Tom was his slave – he’d do as he was told or suffer the consequences.

XXX

Harry apparated home after a long, gruelling day at Hogwarts. Minerva had explained the new setup to them when they had arrived. Teachers would run theory tutorials in the morning and practical tutorials in the afternoon. Each student was given a recommended list of books according to the gaps shown in their tests. Harry was embarrassed to realise that some of the texts on his lists had been magical theory books assigned in Third and Fourth year.

The students were responsible for reading these books and putting any questions raised to their teachers during the appropriate times. The teachers would also be handing out a number of essay questions – anything from one to _three_ – per subject, per week which the students would be responsible for completing and turning in before the weekend, so it could be marked and handed back during the next Monday session. Thus, any questions raised by the essay could be asked of the teacher while the information was still fresh.

Harry was rather impressed with the way they had decided to organise it, and very appreciative of his teachers’ efforts – an extra thirty essays or more to mark every week was surely no small addition to their load. There would be no chasing of homework or attendance – the onus was purely on the student to get as much out of the opportunities they were being given as was possible. He was starting to wonder if he had bitten off more than he could chew, though, especially since he’d be trying to catch up on the Auror training as well…

Still, he tried to reassure himself, the others didn’t have live at home teachers. Given how well Tom had explained Potions the previous day, despite not even having any ingredients, Harry had more faith in him being able to explain Magical Theory.

Walking into the sitting room, he was surprised to see Tom sitting in one of the chairs, reading a book. Upon noticing him enter, the man raised his wine-red eyes to meet Harry’s, before closing his book carefully and sliding nonchalantly to his knees, bowing his head.

“Master,” he greeted easily. Harry felt a slight hint of annoyance: it wasn’t satisfying to have Tom on his knees at his feet and calling him ‘master’ if it didn’t _bother_ him. That irritation made his response sharper than he had intended.

“What are you doing, relaxing? You’re supposed to be _cleaning_.”

“I’ve finished, master,” his slave replied. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Finished? It’s a massive house! How can you be _finished_?” At that point, Tom raised his head and looked defiantly into Harry’s eyes.

“Perhaps I’m just more efficient, master,” he said slightly mockingly. Harry heard the unspoken end to it: _than you are_. Giving a thin smile that showed more teeth than it should, Harry responded.

“Then you won’t mind showing me your efforts, will you?”

“Of course not, _master_ ,” Tom responded, his sweet tone in contrast to his eyes. He started to get up, but Harry just clicked his tongue making him freeze with one knee still on the floor. “Master?” he asked, irritation thinly covered. Harry almost smiled at the sound.

“I didn’t say you could get up.” He let that sink in, revelling in the confusion, then humiliation, then anger that spread across his slave’s face.

“Master, you don’t mean…?” he asked, sounding as if he was both hoping desperately that he’d misunderstood, and fearing that he hadn’t. Harry couldn’t have stopped the grin from spreading across his face if he’d tried, which he hadn’t.

“Come now, pet. If you’ve done a good job, there’s no fear that your hands or knees will be dirtied, is there?” Watching the emotions flash through those crimson eyes, he drank in the defiance warring with the anger, turning into pain, which in its turn gave way to reluctant submission. Oh and the humiliation, the delicious humiliation that clung to every pore of Tom’s skin as he reluctantly crawled towards the door.

Harry’s slave gave him a tour of the house, his seething anger clear in every ‘master’ that he spat and the flashing in his eyes every time he met Harry’s amused gaze. Harry had to admit grudgingly that Tom had seemingly done a good job. There wasn’t actually any dust anywhere that Harry could see. Though, he still found it hard to believe that the man had somehow _cleaned every room_ in Grimmauld Place, by hand. He knew personally how long it took to clean a four bedroom suburban house, with a vacuum cleaner, so didn’t want to imagine how much _more_ time it would take to clean a ten bedroom townhouse which, along with the usual slew of rooms, also included a potions lab, a duelling room and a _ballroom_. A small ballroom, perhaps only fitting fifty people in at a maximum, but a ballroom nonetheless. Even if they hadn’t actually cleared all the rooms yet.

Still, by the time they’d reached the kitchen again, Harry’s desire to see Tom suffer had been satisfied, and he was now hungrier for food than for Tom’s pain.

“OK, you can stand up,” he said. The man glared at him once more, but slowly obeyed. Harry made a show of inspecting his hands and trouser legs below the knee. “Hmm, good enough, I suppose.” Then a thought occurred to him and he smiled brightly. Tom looked appropriately wary. “Well, since I’m so lucky to have such an efficient slave, I guess I’ll have to find something else to occupy your time.”

“It’s not necessary at all, master,” Tom rushed to ‘reassure’ him, his eyes all the while telling Harry of his desperate wish that the younger man would just suddenly drop dead.

“Oh, but I wouldn’t want you getting _bored_ ,” Harry said with faux concern. The man didn’t have any response to that, he thought with satisfaction. “So, when you’ve finished cleaning, you can go and start taming the garden. I believe you got an O in Herbology at OWL level, didn’t you?” The man clearly gritted his teeth before answering.

“Yes master.” Harry had to commend him – it was hard to speak _that_ clearly through clenched teeth. Evidently, Tom had had enough practice somewhere.

“Good. Then I expect to see some progress every day. Oh, and you’re cooking.”

“But I cooked yesterday, master!” the man protested. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Uh, who’s the slave in this relationship?” When the man just crossed his arms, looked away and refused to reply, Harry crossed his own arms and stared at him.

“Tom, who’s the slave? Answer me,” he commanded, adding a note of steel. The man resisted for a few beats longer before giving in.

“I am, master,” he replied softly, a note of tiredness creeping in.

“Which means when I order…”

“…I obey,” he finished reluctantly.

“Exactly,” Harry replied. “And I’m ordering you to do all the evening meals from now on.” There was a beat of silence. “Tom?”

“Yes, master,” the man replied finally, his tone subdued. Harry nodded sharply, then turned and left the room. His last glance into the room revealed his slave standing in the middle of the kitchen looking remarkably small considering his height. Perhaps it was the slight slump, perhaps it was the collar, but whatever it was, Harry wondered why it caused a twist of guilt to tug at his gut.

XXX

The next day, Harry woke feeling nervous. The letter he’d had from Robards had accepted him into the Auror’s recruitment process unconditionally, but Harry couldn’t help but think that if he messed up in his first days, he’d be out.

He dressed in the robes he’d set out the night before, popped down to the kitchen for a quick breakfast and then went to the floo. He hadn’t seen Tom yet, but he wasn’t really surprised. The man had still been wandering around when Harry had been in bed – he had heard the floorboards creaking. So, it was likely he was lying in a bit since it was pretty early: Robards had asked him to come in for 8am so he could go through some things before starting the actual classes at 9am. In the end, Harry shrugged. He’d given Tom the instructions. In the end, whether he followed them or didn’t, wasn’t particularly major – he couldn’t escape, couldn’t do significant damage, couldn’t hurt anyone…everything else was really incidental.

Flooing through to the Auror’s office, Harry stepped out into an area he’d only seen once before. Unlike before, it was pretty quiet with only a few red-robed Aurors working in their offices. A man was waiting by the fireplace. He was dressed in the usual red-robes of the Aurors, had brown hair and brown eyes with an olive coloured skin. In short, he looked rather nondescript. Then he smiled and his expression changed completely.

“Mr Potter, good to meet you finally.” He held out a hand and Harry shook it. The grip was firm and immediately reassuring. Harry breathed properly for the first time in what felt like all morning.

“Good to be here, Head Auror Robards.” The man scoffed.

“Now, we can’t have the Man-who-Conquered calling me by that long thing. Call me Gwaine.” Harry’s smile became a little fixed.

“Sure, uh, did Kingsley speak to you about that?”

“About what, Mr Potter?” Harry grimaced slightly.

“Well, about the fact that I don’t want to use my…my _fame_ to get into the Auror programme.”

“He did say something about that,” Robards admitted, but then he gave Harry a conspiratorial look. “But I know you’re just saying that to be nice.” Harry’s grimace deepened into a frown.

“Sir, I’m not,” he protested. The man looked at him disbelieving.

“But did you honestly think that we would admit someone into the Auror programme two weeks late if they _weren’t_ the saviour of our world.” Harry’s heart sank. Damn it! This is what he’d hoped he could avoid – favouritism for ending a war which he had a hand in starting in the first place.

“Sir,” he tried again. “If you’re only accepting me because I defeated Voldemort, then please tell me now and I’ll leave.” The Head Auror looked at him searchingly, seeing the way he had turned towards the floo, already prepared to depart.

“You really mean that,” he mused.

“Yes Sir,” Harry replied firmly. Robards nodded slowly before another smile broke out on his face, but this one didn’t have the smarmy edge which had been in his initial expression.

“Well done, Potter,” he said, his tone also changed. It was now business-like, professional in a way the overly flattering one hadn’t been. Harry frowned.

“Sir?”

“I had to test you, I ‘m sure you understand.”

“Not really,” Harry admitted. The man’s smile took on a wry tint as he explained.

“Kingsley said that you didn’t want to use your fame to get ahead, but I had to make sure of it. It would do the Auror department a disservice if I allowed someone into the programme without knowing what kind of character they might be bringing to it.”

“So if I hadn’t protested…” Harry started slowly. Robards nodded.

“Then you would have failed,” he replied simply. Harry took that in. “It wouldn’t have been obvious, but your grades would have slowly got worse, until you finally didn’t make the cut and failed out.”

“And now…?”

“Now, it depends on you. You have as much of a chance to succeed or fail as any other candidate in the programme. Kingsley explained how much you would have to work to catch up, didn’t he?” Harry nodded.

“Yeah, he said I would have to study memories of the first two weeks teaching while attending the classes from now.”

“Exactly.” Robards started moving away and Harry followed him. They entered an office, probably Robards’, Harry thought. The older man sat down and pulled out a row of vials containing what Harry recognised as memories. There were about sixteen vials. “The morning and afternoon sessions from the last two weeks. You’re lucky – the practicals start this week so you haven’t missed out on too much. If you’d left it much longer to apply, it would have been a _lot_ harder to catch up.” Harry nodded, standing awkwardly in front of the desk. The Head Auror waved him to a seat. “Sit, sit. Now, here’s your induction pack, your timetable for this week and the time tables for the previous two weeks.”

Harry had a look at the induction pack. It was several sheets long, including a kit list, a code of conduct as an Auror recruit, plus a list of all the subjects he would be studying. He scanned the last taking in the names of the different subjects with excitement. No Charms or Transfiguration on this list - instead it was subjects like Investigative skills, Arrest procedure, Concealment & Disguise, the Legal system, Wizarding Laws, and many more. Looking at the timetables, Harry noticed Ethics was every week, as Kingsley had suggested. He noticed one difference between the first two weeks and the coming week, however. The Legal System had apparently finished after six sessions between two weeks, and was now turning into Self-Defence.

“Now, Potter,” Robards started, having given him a few minutes to investigate the induction pack and timetables, “as I said to all the recruits at the beginning, at the moment you are Auror _recruits_ not _trainees_. What is the difference?” Harry realised it was a rhetorical question when he opened his mouth to answer it but the man barrelled on regardless. “The difference is that Auror trainees have proved that they are _perhaps_ worthy of the title of Auror. _Recruits_ have not.

“As recruits, normally you would have to have at least five NEWTs with grades of either Outstanding or Exceeds Expectations, but the Minister and I have decided that, in light of the whole war situation, we are waiving that requirement this once. But even if you had the grades, it wouldn’t prove you were at all suited to Auror work. That is what this year is about. At the end of the year, you will undergo various assessments. These, combined with your teachers’ reports about your contributions and abilities in class determine whether you are allowed to pass onto the actual Auror training programme.

“Please note, however, that you _can_ be ejected from the programme at any time. If you have a failing grade twice in a row in _any_ subject, you will be called in for a review. Should your interviewer feel that you are not meeting the standards required, you will be ejected from the programme. The same is true if you have several failure grades in different subjects.” Robards fixed Harry with a stern gaze.

“It’s a strict standard, I know, but we only take the best into the Aurors – it would be irresponsible to accept any less when we are charged with the well-being of our world.” He left a moment of silence to let that sink in. “Due to your late arrival, you will be given a period of grace until the end of September to catch up. That does not mean you can do what you want, merely that you don’t need to worry about the consequences of failure. Come October, however, if you are still keen on continuing, that period will be over and you will be held to the same standards as all other recruits. Any questions?” Harry shook his head.

“No Sir.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Actually Sir, do you have a pensieve I can borrow – I don’t have one.” The man seemed to look a little surprised.

“Oh? Then yes, we can lend you a pensieve for the next month. You’ll need to sign it out from the quartermaster. I’ll write you a pass. You can pick it up at the end of the day from the quartermaster, along with the memories. Anything else?” Harry thought about it, but then shook his head. “Then let’s give you a quick tour of the office and the places you’ll be expected to go for your classes.” Harry stood up as Robards did and moved to the door in response to his hand directions. Before Robards opened the door, he paused.

“You do not have to worry that you have been accepted merely because of your actions to end the war…but I find I must express my gratitude that you did.” Harry looked up at the Head Auror, seeing his sincerity shining through his gaze. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just nodded. That seemed to be good enough as the man nodded back at him and then his expression returned to the professional demeanour it had held before.

XXX

Tom woke slowly, his consciousness risking to wakefulness like a slow-moving balloon through water. Looking at the alarm clock on his bedside table, he groaned. It was already half past nine! He had rarely slept this late – there had always been things to do, things to learn, order to give. The exception was probably when he had been a wraith, but then he hadn’t really slept, so he didn’t think that counted. Or perhaps when he had been a homunculus, but again, he had slept most of the time so didn’t consider that as a good example.

But now…. What was there for him to do? Cleaning? Gardening? He made a moue of distaste. Thankfully, his master hadn’t actually specified the number of hours he was supposed to spend doing these menial activities. Though, given his reaction to seeing Tom relaxing last night, he felt he would do well to at least appear to be busy when the boy returned, if nothing else. He shuddered once more as the memory of his humiliating crawl through the house returned to his mind. Not to mention the way the boy had completely walked over him in the kitchen.

Tom worried that the boy was becoming increasingly used to the idea of him being a slave. At first, he had barely been able to _say_ the word; now he was forcing Tom to acknowledge his subservience aloud… Thanks to his experiences as a child and then teenager, Tom was unfortunately very aware of the progression of abuse. It started with small things, cutting words, perhaps, and then as the person became emboldened by his victim’s lack of forceful response, it often increased to physical hurt. The boys at the orphanage had been like that – when he had stopped responding to their insults, they had started shoving him around, tripping him up, damaging his few things...

It was only when he’d responded with overwhelming force which proved his superiority and filled them with fear whenever they thought of him that it had all stopped. And the same was true at Hogwarts, though that had only taken a few years thanks to his already-strong control of his magic.

And now he was faced with it once more. This time was more dangerous than ever before. He couldn’t use overwhelming force to prevent his master from treating him how he wanted. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t even seek the protection of anyone else, much as the mere thought made his stomach turn. All he could do was take whatever subtle actions he could think of to deflect, to distract or to delay his master. Tom fought down the building panic in his stomach with thoughts of finding a book in the library which would free him. Then he would be able to satisfy his desires of revenge and Lord Voldemort would rise again, greater and more powerful than ever before!

His dreams of making the Wizarding world bow at his feet and seeing all his enemies suffer and die – though he was careful to keep those enemies faceless in order to avoid a punishment from the collar – sufficed to quell the panic, for now. So, how was he going to do this?

Offering to teach Harry had definitely been a genius idea. Tom could see how that alone, treated carefully, could change the dynamics between them completely. But he would have to be careful – as he had experienced, treating the boy with any sort of censure or disdain would lead immediately to a backlash. Instead, he was going to have to exercise an uncharacteristic amount of patience, giving positive feedback where possible instead of negative. That way, Harry would slowly become dependent on him for his emotional well-being…His master being emotionally dependent on him would be crucial for ensuring the taste Harry was developing for his pain and humiliation would go no further.

The second…Tom thought carefully about the situation the previous night, trying to move past his own memories of humiliation and helpless rage to understand his master’s motivations. It was difficult – Tom was not terribly good at seeing things from other people’s perspectives, but he was a sight better at it than Voldemort had been with his soul torn into pieces. Tom suddenly realised he felt some disgust at his old self – truly, horcruxes had _not_ been the best idea he’d come up when it had meant he’d slowly lost control over his mind, his magic and his genius. When he realised he was feeling the faintest stirrings of gratitude towards Lady Magic for piecing his soul back together, he pushed the sensations down, horrified. He was _not_ grateful towards the loathed being who had dared to force him into this position.

So, last night. He forced his thoughts back on track. When Harry had come home, he had been annoyed to see Tom relaxing with a book. Why? Was it because he felt envy: that Tom could relax when he had been at Hogwarts all day? Was it because he felt Tom didn’t deserve to relax? Well, whatever the reason, it was simple enough to fix – when Harry fell into a routine of being out of the house, Tom would be able to organise his tasks to ensure that he was always thoroughly occupied whenever his master came home.

But then what had prompted that humiliating tour of the house? He had kneeled without a murmur, without the collar even having to remind him. He had managed to be respectful without sounding like the words were being forced out…. Why had his master been so…so aggressive? While he thought about that, he got out of bed, having a quick shower before going into the kitchen for breakfast.

At the table, he munched on some toast with jam and butter, still turning the question over in his brain as he planned the day’s activities. Yesterday he’d tested a method of cleaning that had proved to work. Instead of giving every room a thorough clean every day, which would keep him occupied from dawn to late into the night – probably the boy’s intentions – he simply made sure that there was no obvious dirt in any of the rooms, while making sure to clean _something_ in all of the rooms, just so he could say he’d cleaned the whole house. Of course, the areas they used most often needed more attention than the other bedrooms, for example, but when done efficiently, it only took him half a day or so. Though it looked like now he had to factor _garden_ - _care_ into his daily events…

It was as he headed to the cleaning cupboard than an answer to the question he’d been absently musing over came to him. When they had duelled, his master had been happy to see the ‘fire’ in his eyes…perhaps he had been _too_ docile. Perhaps he had been mistaken in believing that Harry wanted an obedient pet, but would simply be suspicious if it happened all at once. Perhaps what Harry _really_ wanted was a _challenge_. It would fit what had happened last night – he had been submissive and respectful, so Harry had pushed until he got a reaction. Then he had clearly enjoyed crushing that reaction and reminding both of them who had won.

Not what Tom would have expected from someone Dumbledore had mentored; more like something Tom himself would have perpetrated. Tom found himself torn between irritation and amusement. For all Dumbledore had tried to raise his Golden Boy as the antithesis to Lord Voldemort, he had ended up being just the opposite side of the same coin. Tom found himself wondering how, exactly, that had happened – he knew how he had become who he was, but found it strange to believe that a loving childhood and blessed Hogwarts experience might have resulted in someone similar.

So what was he going to do about it? How could he test his theory? If it proved true, how could he use it?

The thoughts and possible ideas accompanied him as he started the mind-numbingly boring task of cleaning…again.

XXX

Harry arrived home at 7:15pm, his mind already exhausted, but he knew he still had hours of work to do – he had all those pensieve memories to go through, after all, not to mention get started on the essay titles they had been assigned on Monday. He started planning his evening as he walked in the door. Nine hours of classes, approximately, every day, Tuesday to Friday…That was thirty-six hours in a week, so seventy-two hours for two weeks. He had thirty days to catch up, maximum, so that meant he had to watch memories for at least two and a half hours every day, including weekends, to cover all the memories. Plus he had assignments from the Auror training, as well, though he’d only missed three so far, fortunately. So that was at least three and a half hours he needed to dedicate to his Auror work. Then there were the Hogwarts assignments which were due on Friday. He had been given two essay titles each for Potions, Transfiguration and Charms, and then one title for Defence. So that was seven assignments.

Harry moaned as he slumped into a chair in the sitting room. What had he let himself in for? He resigned himself to at least five hours of studying before he would be able to go to bed. He’d have to concentrate on his essays for Hogwarts first, and then do his catching up for the Aurors later in the week and then over the weekend. Wistfully, he missed Hermione. If they were still at Hogwarts together, she would have already written a timetable for him which would have exactly what he needed to study and when, and she would already be badgering him to start. On second thoughts, maybe he didn’t miss it so much. But he did miss having his friends around – this was the first time he had ever lived in a house alone. Or, not alone, he thought as he suddenly remembered his unwelcome house guest.

Thinking of Tom…where was he? It was past seven – he should be making dinner, Harry thought with annoyance. If he was relaxing in the library or something, Harry didn’t know what he would do, but he was sure it wouldn’t be pleasant for the man. Well, time to test whether the collar would be able to communicate to his slave that his master needed him.

“Tom,” he called quietly, as if calling for a house elf. He really couldn’t be bothered to go searching, but he would if the man didn’t appear shortly. When his slave suddenly materialised in the doorway and knelt, an annoyed look on his face, Harry couldn’t help but grin in triumph. Lord Voldemort, obedient house elf! Then he actually took in Tom’s appearance and his mouth fell open.

“What in Merlin’s name were you doing?” he asked, not sure whether to laugh or to be horrified. The man looked completely dishevelled and disgruntled. His clothes were dirty and ruffled, a hole having appeared in his trouser leg, his face and arms were smeared with muck and he had a few cuts and bruises scattered over the visible areas of his skin.

“Gardening, _master_ ,” the man spat out, with heat. At that Harry did laugh.

“What, were the plants attacking _you_?” His laughter stopped abruptly as the man responded.

“Yes, _actually_.” Harry looked at Tom searchingly, trying to see if he was being sarcastic, but all he saw was irritation and frustration.

“Wait, the plants actually _were_ attacking you?”

“It’s a bloody wizard’s garden, _master_ , which has been allowed to run amok. Of _course_ it attacked me. And considering I’m not able to use magic, it…won,” Harry couldn’t help chuckling at the sheer disgust in the final word. Tom Riddle, beaten by a plant. Now he’d heard it all. Though the man did have a point – Harry didn’t know what plants were in the garden, but considering the previous owners, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were highly magical…and highly dangerous. Not having magic was a significant handicap. He considered the matter. It would need careful wording but…

“Fine. You are allowed to use magic _only_ in the garden and _only_ for the purpose of subduing plants which you are otherwise unable to deal with. You are _not_ allowed to use magic if there is another possible solution. Better?”

“Yes, master,” Tom’s tone was relieved. To be fair, Harry didn’t really blame him not wanting to fight with plants all day that he knew wouldn’t be tamed except by magic which he wasn’t allowed to use. And Harry _did_ want the garden sorted, eventually. “May I use reference books in the library to study which spells to use?” he asked semi-politely.

“I thought you had an O at OWL level,” Harry pointed out.

“Yes master, but Herbology was never one of my interests and I haven’t studied it in years.” It was a good point – Harry really couldn’t see Voldemort doing anything to do with _plants_. Not unless it was to murder someone. And what was the harm of letting him look stuff up about them?

“OK, fine. You’re allowed to look at any book in the library for the purpose of researching how to deal with a plant causing problems in the garden. _However_ ,” he emphasised, looking at Tom pointedly, “before you’re allowed to use a spell, you must write a _succinct_ summary of its name, incantation, wand movements and _all_ possible effects on plants, people, creatures, the environment and anything else. The information must be _complete_ and wholly _truthful_ to your knowledge and include the name of the book in which you found it. I’ll just remind you here of the consequences if I find you’ve tried to lie to me…” He left a pause for the memory of his warning to come back to Tom’s mind. When he saw the man’s small flinch, he was satisfied. And yes, maybe he was giving himself more work here, but the number of spells he’d talked to Neville about that were designed for plants, but also worked very well on people…well, he didn’t want Voldemort learning more spells to hurt than he already knew. “Anything else?

“…my wand, master?” Tom asked, his tone tentative. Harry considered it. He didn’t really want to allow his slave access to his wand all the time…

“I’ll leave it in a kitchen cupboard under a timed ward,” he decided. “You’ll be able to use it between five and half past six pm. Otherwise, the door won’t open for you. If I come back and it’s not in the cupboard, you’ll be punished. It will also be a good reminder to make dinner,” he said pointedly. The man flushed, but held his head up, meeting Harry’s eyes and letting him see his defiance. “Understood?”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied reluctantly.

“Good, well, go on and make dinner, then. I’m hungry.”

“May I clean up first, master?” the man asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible, though Harry could see his struggle. Harry pretended to consider it.

“No, I think you look good like that,” he replied mockingly. A muscle ticked in Tom’s jaw, but he forced himself to look down submissively.

“As you wish, master,” he said, the undercurrent of anger as clear in his voice as his words were clear in his submission despite it. That dark part inside Harry purred in satisfaction at subduing his enemy, at controlling his actions. Then Harry realised what he was thinking and swiftly shoved it away. He waved his hand at Tom, making it clear he was dismissed, then turned his attention to the first of his essays, figuring he might as well start while the other man made the food.

XXX

If Harry had seen Tom a moment after he had stood up and turned away, he wouldn’t have felt so satisfied in his control over his enemy. A triumphant grin spread across Tom’s face. Finally, _finally_! If Harry had known how many loopholes he had left with his library permission, he would have withdrawn it immediately. As it was, Tom would use this opportunity to its fullest extent.

The first loophole he could see was that Harry had specified _spells_ , completely missing the fact that there were a number of subjects which were not classified as spells – rituals, potions and enchantments being only some of the biggest. The second loophole was that he only had to tell his master about the spells he _intended to use_. He wasn’t required to say anything about spells he just wanted to learn, but not use – yet. The third and biggest was that he could read _any book_ in the library for the purpose of dealing with the plants. But, as he thought virtuously, but with a hint of wickedness, how was _he_ to know which books in the library contained really important information? It would be such a _shame_ if he ended up wasting his time reading a book that actually had nothing to do with plants, but that he had hoped might because of something in its title, on its cover, the name of the author…

And then…and then he would finally rid himself of this tombstone around his neck. This collar that had acted so much like a leash when his master had summoned him – pulling at him and giving him shocks until he found the boy. He would be rid of the limits on his magic, the influence on his mind…he would be _free_!

It was a shame about his wand, though. Those rules were a bit stricter, and at this moment, he couldn’t see a way around them. But the first task was finding information about the collar – it wouldn’t be much use having access to his wand, but not knowing what to do with it. No, he could be patient about the use of his wand.

Despite his eagerness to go and explore the library, now he had finally got some permission he could work with, he forced himself to go to the kitchen. No need to earn a punishment and draw his master’s attention when he could just go and explore after dinner.

XXX

It was Thursday night and Harry was starting to panic with one of his essay titles. He had been doing well so far that week – he had managed to watch three of the Auror’s memory vials, and do all but one of his essays. It was just the last one that he was really struggling with. ‘ _The Levitating Charm is the best first charm for wizards and witches to learn. Discuss.’_ He didn’t have a clue why it was the best charm to start with, simply that Flitwick had chosen to do so in his First year. Not only that, but he’d tried doing research about the Levitating charm, and all the theory had been too confusing for him. Then, he was hit by an idea. Didn’t he have that walking encyclopaedia living with him, under his control?

“Tom,” he said quietly, knowing his slave would be forced to his side, wherever he was. The man appeared a few minutes later, looking rumpled and sleepy.

“Master, it’s past midnight. I was in bed,” he protested, yawning widely before covering his mouth. Then he winced briefly and dropped to his knees, glaring up at Harry as soon as the yawn subsided. Harry felt a flash of guilt but pushed it away.

“You can sleep in tomorrow,” he said dismissively. “I need to do this tonight.”

“It couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, could it master?” the man grumbled. Harry fixed him with a stern stare.

“No. But even if it could, if I wanted you to get up-“

“I’m your slave, I _get_ it,” Tom interrupted rudely. “But can we get on with it so I can go back to bed?” He winced again as the collar evidently punished him for his disrespect. “Meaning no offence, master,” he added in a conciliatory tone. Harry sighed; he supposed he couldn’t expect anyone to welcome being dragged out of bed. Not even if they would be able to sleep in the next morning.

“I have an essay I’m struggling to write,” he admitted, getting to the point immediately. Tom’s crimson eyes sharpened and he looked far more awake.

“So you would like me to teach you, would you?” he purred. Harry eyed him before nodding dubiously, wondering if this was a bad idea… “Then may I sit in a chair, _Harry_?” Oh it was too late to be dealing with Tom’s machinations. Harry waved a hand absently.

“Fine, whatever.” The man smirked and, standing up, pulled a chair over to sit at Harry’s desk, perpendicular to him. Harry shifted slightly – Tom was a bit closer than comfortable and his eyes were far too piercing.

“What is the subject, Harry?” Harry explained what he was supposed to do. His slave turned teacher looked thoughtful. “And what is the problem you have?” Harry sighed in frustration.

“I don’t know where to start! I mean, the wand movement is pretty easy, but I remember so many of my classmates having trouble with the pronunciation. I think only Hermione managed to make her feather float by the end of the lesson. Seamus blew his up.” Tom chuckled abruptly, sounding surprised.

“Would I be right in thinking that this…Seamus…became known for blowing things up?” Harry shrugged.

“Yeah, and trying to turn pumpkin juice into rum.” Tom shook his head, a smile playing on his lips.

“Well, your friend’s pyromania and burgeoning alcoholism aside, what aspects of casting magic is the Levitating Charm supposed to teach children?” Harry thought about it and then shook his head in irritation.

“That’s the problem – I don’t know! That you have to pronounce spells carefully? Or use proper wand movements?” Tom shrugged.

“Those are useful lessons to learn, but not the key aspects. Harry, I’d like you to cast the Levitating Charm on this piece of paper, thinking carefully about every step of the process you take.” Harry followed instructions, frowning in concentration as he tried to notice every step. The piece of paper floated for a moment before he cut the charm.

“Now?”

“Explain what you did, every last detail.”

“I waved my wand in the correct pattern, said the words, and the piece of paper lifted.”

“Did you have any sort of image in mind?” Harry shrugged.

“The piece of paper lifting, I suppose.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Tom. “Casting magic relies on will, visualisation and magical control.” Harry frowned.

“What about the words and the wand movements?”

“Master, will you give me permission to demonstrate a wandless levitation?” Harry considered it, but decided that it wasn’t too dangerous.

“Fine, you may demonstrate _one_ wandless levitation on this piece of paper.” A moment later, the piece of paper lifted. Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise – Tom hadn’t moved, he hadn’t said a word. In fact, had he not known that it was him casting it, he would have wondered why the piece of paper was floating. Then Tom stopped casting and the sheet of paper settled back down to the desk top.

“You see, I didn’t use any sort of gestures or words, but the piece of paper lifted. Why?” Harry considered the problem.

“Because you thought about it?” he suggested. Tom made an impatient gesture.

“Not simply _thought_ about it – muggles _think_ about levitating pieces of paper; it doesn’t mean they will lift. No, I _visualised_ the piece of paper lifting, then I focused my _will_ on it conforming to my thoughts, and finally I directed my _power_ to acting out my thoughts. If words and gestures were required to do magic, no child would ever have accidental magic, would they?”

Harry had never really thought about that, but it was true. He had turned his teacher’s hair blue because he was angry with her accusing him of cheating, and wanted her to look bad in front of the class. Then he had apparated onto the top of the school building because he had desperately wanted to get away from Dudley. Each time, he had been emotional, which he supposed focused his will, and had had a strong intent. Then, the power must have acted, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to cast magic. But that raised another question.

“Then why do we have wands when we could do all magic wandless? Why are we taught gestures and words?”

“Because wandless magic requires the caster to be able to clearly visualise their aim, to have an uncompromising will and a not insignificant amount of magical power. Wands level the playing field in terms of power – a wand which has chosen its wizard is a marvellous tool for focusing and maximising the wizard’s power, making spells more efficient by several orders of magnitude. That wandless spell I cast required enough power to have lifted perhaps a medium-sized boulder with a wand.” Harry couldn’t help gaping – that was a _crazy_ difference. “As for words and gestures, again, they level the playing field in terms of visualisation and willpower. Casting a spell with words, gestures, or both is in fact initiating a ritual, but one which has been rendered so efficient and effective by hours of careful arithmancy calculations that it takes seconds and requires only power from the caster.”

“A ritual?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. He’d never heard of all of this. Tom waved his hand dismissively.

“Yes. We learned all about this theory in my NEWTs Rituals class. If you are interested, I can direct you to some books on the matter.” About to say ‘yes’ eagerly, Harry considered the pile of work he still had to do…and the additional work he would have as soon as Monday came around, and changed his mind.

“Maybe later,” he hedged instead. Tom shrugged.

“Very well, Harry. As I was saying, this levels the playing field – wizards with poor willpower or visualisation have a crutch which enables them to cast spells they would otherwise be incapable of learning. A certain amount of visualisation and _intent_ is still required, however, especially for the first few times casting the spell. Based on what you have learned so far, can you think of any reasons why the Levitating Charm might be a good first spell?”

Harry mused over the information. So casting a spell required either lots of power, willpower, and visualisation if done wandless, or a bit of all of those if done with a wand, gestures and words. What made the Levitation Charm easy? What made it easier than, for example, a charm for cleaning the room?

“It’s a simple effect?” he half-asked, half-suggested. Tom smiled at him, and for once, Harry actually got the idea that it was at least somewhat sincere. It also made him rather handsome, though Harry quickly pushed that thought aside.

“That’s certainly part of it,” the man agreed. “But there’s another aspect which makes the Levitation Charm a better choice than making a pineapple dance, for example.” Harry continued to think. Making a pineapple dance was also a simple effect, but it would require much more complex visualisation, he thought. Suggesting that, he was rewarded with another smile. _Tom looks so much better with a smile_ , he found himself thinking again, looking into those red eyes that glowed warmly with a genuinely happy expression. Shaking the thought out of his head once more, he refocused.

“Good, exactly. It is relatively easy to imagine a feather lifting than it is to, for example, visualise water coming out of your wand. There’s a reason a feather is used instead of a rock, too. Do you know why?” Harry thought he had an idea.

“Because a feather looks like it _should_ be flying.”

“Precisely. If you breathe on it, it flutters into the air. It’s very easy to imagine lifting up from the desk on a current of magic. Casting magic is almost as much about self-belief as it is about everything else – if you can visualise the feather flying, are able to _will_ it to fly, and have the power to do so, it still means nothing if you don’t actually _believe_ it will.”

“Huh,” Harry acknowledged, his mind spinning. Once more, he thought he’d learned more in less than half an hour than in six years at Hogwarts. Why didn’t they teach it? Or maybe they did, but Harry had never learned it…

“I would suggest you look in whatever magical theory books you have been assigned for references to support your arguments,” Tom suggested briskly. “Now, do you have any more questions, or may I return to bed, _master_?” Brought out of his thoughts, Harry remembered that it was late at night.

“No, it’s fine. You can go to bed.” Tom nodded, then stood up and walked towards the door, his expression back to its customary neutrality. “Tom?” Harry said, just as the man reached the doorway. His slave stopped and turned back enough that Harry could see his profile. “Just…thanks. I was really struggling with that, so…thank you.” For a moment, he thought the other man was just going to continue walking, but in the end, he turned a bit more to make eye contact. Then he nodded once and then turned and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

Harry looked at the spot where he had disappeared for a thoughtful moment before turning back to his work – this essay wasn’t going to write itself, after all, and he did want to get _some_ sleep that night.

XXX

Harry rose from sleep languidly, warm and comfortable in his bed. Sleepily, cast a _tempus_. At the 9am rising from his palm, a shot of adrenaline shocked him awake. He was late! It wasn’t until he was halfway out of bed and reaching for his wand that he realised he didn’t need to panic – it was Saturday.

He fell back into bed with a grunt and jammed the heels of his hands in his eyes. Merlin, he had been burning the midnight oil recently. There hadn’t been a night that week that he’d managed to go to bed before midnight, and on Thursday night – or rather, Friday morning – he hadn’t managed to finish that damn essay until it was almost time to get up to go to the Ministry. He’d survived off pepper-up potions for that day and then crashed as soon as he’d got home.

Still, it had been worth it. He had completed the essays for Hogwarts, two of the assignments for the Aurors, and had watched four vials in total. He planned to watch four more this weekend – for a total of eighteen hours – and do the last assignment for the first week. That would put him in a good position to finish catching up by the end of the next week. With any luck, they wouldn’t be given too many essay titles the coming Monday… After he had caught up, he would have a bit more time to spend on general study and perhaps learning some spells and…potions.

Oh yes, they’d planned on buying some potions ingredients today. Fun. Thinking about his houseguest, Harry realised something. He thought carefully, calculated the dates…yes, he was right – he and Tom had actually managed to cohabitate for a _month_ without somehow killing each other, despite the various restrictions in place… Somehow miracles did happen!

With that thought, Harry realised that he was far too awake to fall back asleep. Groaning slightly because he could really do with more hours, he decided to quickly grab some breakfast, then start watching one of the memories. Better to get it done first and then go out to Diagon Alley in the afternoon. A hint of amusement passed through him at what Hermione would think of his work ethic right now as he got up and dressed.

XXX

Tom was cleaning. Again. Damn this bloody house from seeming to manufacture dirt from the air! And because his _master_ was home, he couldn’t do his usual lick and a promise just to ensure he fulfilled his orders just enough to avoid punishment. No, he actually had to do a _thorough_ job, so as not to raise his master’s suspicions. It was logical, and he supposed that by doing a proper job now, it would enable him to do less work during the week, but he still hated it.

Frankly, he kept his mind away from the future, because the prospect of months, years, maybe even _decades_ of this…well, he reminded himself that he was a genius; he would find a solution. And so far, what he had found had seemed promising. Nothing specific to his situation, of course, but he had found several pieces of research to reinforce his own experience that everything could be broken – it was just a matter of either carefully applied power or finding the right _key_.

Even the muggles knew that – look at their numerous stories where one character fell into the power of another, whether it was being unable to change back into a selkie, falling into an enchanted sleep, or being transformed into a beast. In each case, there was a specific action, emotion or word which would break the enchantment.

The books he had read had explained why: it was a balance. An enchantment that was ‘unbreakable’ was in reality incredibly fragile. Just the smallest disturbance to its subject could shatter it like glass. Instead, wizards long ago had realised that by intentionally building in a specific way of breaking the enchantment, it actually strengthened the rest of its effects and made it more resistant to all other avenues of attack. The nature of the world was change; and the nature of magic even more so.

Given the strength of the collar’s enchantment – no matter whether he’d cut it, hit it with a rock, drilled into it with a knife, nothing had happened except pain from the collar’s punishment – it should have a very specific release clause. He would imagine that for all the other slaves, the release clause was simply the time written on its front. As soon as the time ran out, the collar would release its wearer from its enchantment. For his, however…there was no such thing as eternity, and giving an unrealistic time limit would just weaken the enchantment. It had to be something else…

So what Tom planned to do in the next week was to research the _collar_. He wanted to know if there was anything similar recorded in the books. Maybe the previous time of enslavement of convicts could hold some clues….

His collar started jerking and a brief shock of pain ran through him. Grimacing, Tom put his cleaning materials down and stood up. His master was getting into a rather bad habit of simply _summoning_ him like _dog_. He had really not appreciated being woken up by the collar shocking him as a result of having ignored its initial signals _because he was asleep!_ Though, in a way Tom was glad his master had started to become dependent on him for help, at least as it pertained to academic matters.

Following the pressure on his throat to the sitting room, he knelt just inside the doorway.

“Yes, master?” he said, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice: why waste the effort when he had verified that the boy was happier when he knew Tom was unhappy?

“We need to get some potions ingredients from Diagon Alley.” Tom’s heart leapt…and then sank the next moment. He was tired of this house – he hadn’t been outside for _weeks_ , well, except for working in the garden, but that didn’t count. But then then he remembered that he was a _slave_ with a collar around his neck. Even if most people wouldn’t recognise him as _Lord Voldemort_ , he disliked the thought that they would be staring at him in either disgust or (worse) pity.

“You said ‘we’, master,” he started neutrally. “Is it really necessary for me to come?” The boy shrugged.

“You’re the teacher – do you honestly think I would do a good job picking out decent ingredients?” Tom thought about it, wanting to say ‘yes’, because then he could get out of this trip, but both he and Harry knew the answer.

“No, master,” he replied reluctantly.

“Well, there you are, then.” Tom’s master surveyed him critically. “You’ll need to change your clothes – those have dust all over them.” Then he hesitated. “Also…Tom, when Kingsley…gave you to me, he said that I should use restraints if ever you were out in public, unless I could trust you to behave.” Tom remembered. He _had_ been in the room too. But his spirits sank even further at the thought of being forced into public with chains binding his wrists, or his ankles, or both. Perhaps even a gag in his mouth. His skin crawled at the image. “Can I trust you?” Wait? He was being given a choice?

“Yes, master. I’ll behave.” The boy eyed him dubiously.

“You’ll behave according to the expectations of public behaviour set out in the guidebook? No eye contact, stay close to me at all times, kneel at my feet if I sit, no speaking to anyone, no touching anything?” Tom grimaced.

“I would rather not go out at all, master.” His master shook his head.

“That’s not an option, Tom. I need you in order to choose different potions ingredients – we already established that. No, it’s a question of whether you will behave without restraints, or whether you require them.” Tom gritted his teeth – he could see that spark of sadism which had been appearing in those emerald eyes with greater and greater frequency since he had first arrived. Faced with the impossible decision, there was really only one answer he could give.

“I’ll behave, master. There’s no need for restraints.” Harry nodded, seemingly unsurprised.

“See that you do. If you cause me any problems, I’ll punish you when we get home. Understood?”

“Yes, master.” Absently, Tom wondered whether one day his teeth would actually crack from how hard, and how frequently, he seemed to be clenching them in recent times.

“OK, well, go and get changed. Come down here in a few minutes and we’ll go.” Standing up, Tom walked swiftly to his room, picking a set of clothes that hadn’t yet been ruined by either the garden or his cleaning. Maybe he should keep this set as his decent clothes? Merlin knows the others had been damaged quickly enough by all the menial tasks he had been charged with, and he didn’t know when he would next be allowed to choose new ones. The further reminder of his sheer dependence on his master’s goodwill didn’t help raise his mood from where it had plummeted.

Returning downstairs, his master looked him over before nodding in approval.

“Come here,” the boy instructed. Tom obeyed slowly, coming within arm’s reach before starting to kneel. “No need for that,” he said and Tom straightened. “I need to be holding you when we leave the house’s wards, remember.” Yes, he remembered, and then thought of what might have happened if he had tried to floo without that contact made Tom feel slightly sick. So saying, his master took hold of his upper arm and urged him into the green flames, calling out their destination as he went.

The whirling deposited them into the Leaky Cauldron and Harry immediately started striding through the pub, whispers following him as Tom hurried to keep the requisite distance from his master. He already hated this trip as he caught several of the not-so-subtle comments.

“-see the collar-“

“-Death Eater scum!”

“-didn’t know _Harry Potter_ had got one. Maybe we-“

“-what they deserve, after-“

“-not right!”

Then they were out of the crowded area, through the brick wall, and into the alley. Here, it was a bit less crowded – being late afternoon, most people were either heading home or into the Leaky for a drink, but there were still people walking around. Tom kept his eyes on his master’s back to ensure that he didn’t either get to far away, or run into the boy if he suddenly slowed, but also to avoid looking at all the other people on the street. Still, at least his theory that other people wouldn’t recognise him had proved to be true, given that there hadn’t been a huge hue and cry about ‘You –Know-Who’. He had thought it would be the case, but had considered that maybe the papers could have published his picture at the time of The Event.

Fortunately, the apothecary wasn’t far down the road. It was as miasmic as usual, the wave of stench almost hitting Tom like a wall as they walked in. No, Tom thought as he looked around, nothing has changed much. The thought made him pause for a moment, longing clenching at his heart like a fist. What wouldn’t he give to go back to the time before his enslavement? To be able to walk in here by himself, for his _own_ purposes. Maybe scare the shopkeeper a bit so he got the best deals…Not even as Lord Voldemort, perhaps – at this point, he would even take going back to plain Tom Riddle…

“OK,” his master said, stopping just inside the door. “Here’s a basket – go and get the ingredients we need. As you do so, explain to me how you choose the best ones.” Tom would do so happily if it meant they didn’t have to repeat this painful process again, and the boy would be able to go on his own in the future.

“Yes, master,” he acknowledged, keeping the usual grudging tone out of his voice with respect to their surroundings – he wasn’t sure how much his master had wanted him to stick to the guidebook in terms of behaviour, but better safe than sorry. And if someone heard him speaking disrespectfully to his master, he knew from his reading that the person could complain to the Ministry. At that point, the Ministry could choose to investigate to ensure that the ‘convict’ was being suitably treated. If not, they could either take the slave away or perform punishments for ‘errant behaviour’. Originally it had been put in place to ensure that relatives or friends of the enslaved convict didn’t buy them and give them a ‘cushy’ experience, but it had developed into just another way for the Ministry to interfere in everyone’s lives.

Given that he was with Harry in the first place because his collar wouldn’t accept another master, he wasn’t afraid of being taken away and given to someone worse, but the punishments the Ministry could apply did make him slightly more cautious. As a slave with no access to magic without his master’s permission, and no way to defend himself, he didn’t want to know what sort of punishment they would choose to apply. So, caution was the order of the day.

Taking the basket shoved at him, Tom started scanning the shelves for the basics of a reasonably well-stocked potions lab. As he found the items, he explained to his master how to tell whether they were in good condition, fresh, and in some cases, more effective. It took a while to get everything, but finally they were done and could move to the counter. Tom placed the basket on the counter for the shopkeeper to record everything, then stepped back for his master to pay.

“Tha’ll be…twenny-seven galleons, ‘leven sickles ‘n six knuts,” the shopkeeper decided. Tom’s head jerked up to stare at him in surprise. That was…that was highway robbery! Seeing Harry reach towards his money pouch, he had lifted his hand and had placed it on his master’s arm before he’d actually thought about his actions. Then, both the shopkeeper and the boy were staring at him, so he needed to say something. But he’d need to be _respectful_ about it.

“Master, may I speak?” he asked demurely, looking down. Harry made a ‘go on’ gesture. “It’s just…those ingredients shouldn’t cost more than twenty galleons at the _most_. Usually, it would be more like seventeen or eighteen galleons.” Harry looked up at the shopkeeper.

“Is that true?” he asked, his voice neutral. The man spluttered a few times, before vehemently responding in the negative.

“No! T’ slave’s a dir’y _liar_! Jus’ like all Death Ea’er scum!” Tom clenched his teeth together and found his fists were also curling into fists, but he kept his temper. He wasn’t sure what made him angrier – being called a liar, or a Death Eater. Please, he was the _lord_ of the Death Eaters! The tiny amount of humour made it easier to beat back the waves of fury threatening to take over. When his master responded, his words were unexpected.

“He’s _my_ slave, thank you. I know _very well_ that he is not lying to me – he would be writhing on the floor right now if he was.” Tom swallowed dryly at the icy tone. “It leaves me to conclude that in fact _you_ are the one lying. I would suggest that you start being honest if you don’t want me to walk out of that door and suggest to everyone I know that they avoid your shop.”

“Oh, and why should tha’ make me worry, _boy_?” Tom heard Harry take a sharp breath and flinch slightly, though he wasn’t sure why exactly. Then the boy reached up and pulled his fringe to one side. The shopkeeper’s intake of breath was a lot louder than Harry’s had been. “Mr Po’er! I didn’ know!” suddenly the man’s tone had turned into oil. Tom disliked it even more than the borderline aggressive one he’d been using earlier. “Sorry for tha’. ‘ere, ‘ave it on the ‘ouse.” Then he took on an even less convincing ingratiating smile. “An’ if any o’ yer friends wanna buy some quali’y ingredien’s, please send ‘em ‘ere.” Tom was very glad to see his master simply give the annoying man a steady look, count out twenty galleons and then pick up the ingredients. The shopkeeper deflated, but he didn’t say any more, thankfully. Then, as they were heading out of the shop, Harry stopped dead, Tom almost running into him.

Looking in the direction of his master’s eyes, he saw a corpulent man with blond hair and a moustache standing over a slighter boy with dark hair and a collar around his neck. Was that what was attracting Harry’s attention – seeing another slave and master? On closer look, he wasn’t a boy, but he couldn’t have been long out of Hogwarts. He was vaguely familiar – perhaps the son of one of Lord Voldemort’s supporters who had been initiated shortly before The Event? The slave was pleading with the man standing over him.

“Please, master, please! I didn’t mean to!”

“You useless boy!” the master seethed, his hand gripping the young man’s hair and pulling it back painfully. “Now I’ll have to pay for that!” Looking down at their feet, Tom saw the cause of the incident – a jar of newts’ eyes had been dropped and had spilled everywhere. But then, closer inspection of the slave’s hands explained why it had happened – Tom almost winced at the angry marks covering them: it looked like the young man had been caned or something from the welts.

The master brought his hand back and slapped his slave hard enough to send the young man to the floor where he then followed up with a kick. The slave cried out, trying to curl up in a ball.

“Silence, you snivelling pile of rubbish!” the master ordered. The sounds from the slave cut out immediately. Tom looked at his own master to see how he was taking it, hoping not to see any sort of appreciation for the scene – he did _not_ want Harry getting ideas on how to treat him from this little escapade.

Instead, he frowned at the look on his master’s face. The boy looked almost…afraid. His eyes were glassy and he was white as a sheet. He was also trembling, his feet rooted to the ground but the rest of his body looking as if he wished he could run away.

“Master?” Tom asked, the note of concern in his voice surprising him. Well, of course he would feel some concern, he decided. He was utterly dependent on the boy, after all. The boy who didn’t respond to his question. Tom tried again. “Master, are you alright?” Still no response. Feeling a bit helpless – it wasn’t as if either Tom or Lord Voldemort had ever had to deal with this sort of thing before – he reached towards Harry to touch him on the arm. The boy flinched violently and raised his arms as if to protect his face. Tom realised he had started muttering under his breath.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” was what he was saying on repeat. Now a bit more than concerned, Tom moved closer, but didn’t touch. Was this a panic attack or something? If so, why now?

“Master, can you hear me?” he said as soothingly as he could. “Master, listen to my voice.” Hesitating, Tom decided to try his name – after all, he was allowed to use it when he was teaching, and he had been teaching Harry about the ingredients, he rationalised. “Harry?” he said tentatively, becoming emboldened when the collar didn’t respond. “Harry, listen to me. You’re safe, you’re not in whatever place your mind is right now. Come on, come out of it, breathe.” He kept up a litany of words until he saw those emerald eyes starting to clear, the trembling starting to subside.

“Wha’? Tom?” Harry asked, his voice faint and reedy.

“Yes, Harry. Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Now the boy was a bit more aware, Tom chanced touching him again. There was a flinch, but not as violent as before as Tom touched his shoulder to direct him out of the shop. Looking back, he realised that the slave and master who had started all of this had disappeared into the shelves of the shop, but that the shopkeeper was watching, calculation on his face. Glaring at the man, Tom guided Harry out of the door.

“Master, may I apparate us back to the house?” Tom asked, figuring Harry wasn’t really in the state to manage it safely. The boy turned to him, a slight frown on his face.

“You don’t have a wand, though.” Tom shrugged, a slight smirk on his face.

“I don’t need one.” His master looked at him searchingly for a moment, though the usual stubborn will behind his eyes looked more like tiredness than usual. Finally, he gave up.

“Fine. Just to the house, though, and just this once.”

“Thank you, master,” Tom replied, choosing not to point out that ‘the house’ was extremely vague, and had he had the chance to set something up, he could easily have apparated the two of them to some other destination than the one Harry had in mind. As it was, luckily for the boy, Tom wanted to go back to Grimmauld Place as much as he did.

Gripping his master’s shoulder more firmly, Tom visualised his destination, applied his will and engaged his magic. A moment later, they popped out onto the doorstep of Grimmauld Place. Tom opened the door, knowing from the other time he had left that Harry didn’t bother to lock it – if the wards hadn’t kept the person out, they wouldn’t be kept out by a simple locked door, he had explained. Guiding the boy into the sitting room, he pushed him into a chair, then went to the kitchen to make some tea. Coming back with two cups, he passed one to Harry, then, hesitating, sat down in a nearby chair. When that didn’t provoke a reprimand from either his master or the collar, he smirked and settled more deeply. Crossing his legs, he sipped at the tea.

“Thanks,” Harry said, a moment later. Tom raised an eyebrow.

“For what? Master.” The boy shrugged.

“For bringing me back? For getting me home? For the tea?” He shrugged again as if to indicate all of or none of the above.

“Ah,” Tom replied. He let the silence linger for a few more minutes, waiting for Harry to take a sip of his tea. “Was that a panic attack?” he asked, breaking the quiet between them. The boy shrugged again – that seemed to be his response at the moment. Tom nodded as if the answer had meant something to him. Which, perhaps it did. Perhaps the lack of follow-up question was a response in itself. “Not your first, I imagine,” he guessed, watching Harry closely. When he saw the slight flinch and shuttering of his expression, he was satisfied. “What caused it?”

“Why do you want to know?” Tom thought the question was supposed to have been said with anger, but after the events of the day, all that was in his tone was tiredness. Tom shrugged, his gesture significantly more elegant than that of the boy sitting across from him.

“Curiosity, primarily. Then, as a slave, my wellbeing is unfortunately dependent on your own – if something happened to you, it might cause problems for me.” The boy snorted at that. Tom wasn’t sure why it was _amusing_ , but perhaps it was just a reaction to the irony that Tom was now completely dependent on the health of the boy who was prophesised to vanquish him, the boy he had tried to kill oh so many times. Sometimes Tom felt the same.

“Well, I highly doubt we’ll encounter a situation like that again, so I don’t think you have to worry,” Harry told him dismissively. Tom’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his chin on his interlaced fingers.

“So, it wasn’t the master/slave aspect which set it off.” Harry frowned in confusion.

“What?”

“You said that you doubt we’ll encounter a situation like that again, but the chances of us encountering another master/slave pair are relatively high. Thus, it’s not that aspect which upset you, master. It must be something to do with the people involved.” Tom ignored Harry’s gaping at him as he turned the information in his mind. Thinking about the incident, he realised something.

“The slave had dark hair.” Studying the boy across from him, he continued. “In fact, in a certain light, master, we could say he had a passing resemblance to you…” Harry sat back in his chair, crossing his arms defensively.

“No he didn’t.” Tom smirked, his red eyes glinting as he scented weakness.

“So,” he mused, tracking every minute movement of his prey, “something about seeing someone like yourself being berated and punished by an older man triggered an attack. An attack, I might add, which would only appear if you had been through significant trauma on at least one occasion.”

“Shut up,” muttered Harry. Tom pretended he didn’t hear it, ignoring the low pain his continued speech provoked from the collar.

“Now Harry, that whole scene didn’t really strike me as something you would have experienced from the hands of my Death Eaters – a torture scene, perhaps; that kind of almost _domestic_ violence, no. And apart from Slughorn, who I really can’t see engaging in that sort of behaviour, there aren’t any teachers at Hogwarts who resemble that man, so it’s not something from Hogwarts….” Tom grinned as he worked through his thought to its conclusion. Had he known that Harry was thinking how like a wolf he appeared in that moment, he would have been proud. “I believe you grew up with muggles, didn’t you?” he asked rhetorically. “Could it be that Dumbledore’s little saviour was…abused?”

“Shut up!” Harry roared, leaping to his feet, the cup of tea crashing to the floor and soaking the carpet. Tom clicked his tongue in annoyance at the mess which he’d probably have to clean, but stayed silent. From experience with the collar, he knew that the more force and intent behind the order, the heavier the punishment dealt out when it was contravened – it was why he’d continued speaking earlier when the order had been barely voiced.

Harry started pacing, reminding Tom of a great cat, perhaps a lion, pacing in a cage which was too small. Finally, he came to a halt near the fireplace, staring into the flames.

“They didn’t abuse me,” Harry said, but Tom heard the lack of certainty in it.

“May I speak, master?” he asked quickly before hissing in pain as the collar activated. It punished him harshly for a few, long seconds before subsiding. When he opened his eyes again, Harry had turned slightly away from the fire and was looking at him. The look in his eyes was unreadable. A few moments longer, and the boy waved his hand.

“Go on, then. How much worse can it be than what you’ve already said?”

“What did they do to you, Harry?”

“Who?”

“The muggles.” There was a long silence. For a while, Tom wondered whether Harry would actually respond.

“They…They never liked me.” Tom had never heard Harry sound so _defeated_. Immediately, anger rose at the muggles – they weren’t allowed to make _his_ nemesis sound like that: only _Lord Voldemort_ was allowed to do that. “You know,” he chuckled hollowly, “I don’t even think it was _personal_. They just hated magic, and I was this little boy who kept doing it when I felt scared or angry. So they hated me. And they made sure I knew it.” He fell silent.

“Panic attacks don’t come from nothing,” observed Tom neutrally, though his eyes no doubt revealed his anger when Harry turned to look into them.

“What do you want me to say Tom? That they hit me? That they starved me? That they made sure I knew _every minute of the fucking day_ that they wished I’d never been _born_ or, having been born would just go and die in a ditch and rid them of my unwanted self? Yes, they did all that and more!” By the end, he was panting and his magic was rising around him, his fists clenched and his eyes flashing. But somehow, Tom knew that it wasn’t directed at him. Or, at least, it wasn’t _all_ directed at him.

“Then why do you say they didn’t abuse you?” He asked when the fire in Harry had subsided slightly. There was another long silence before Harry answered. And in his voice was a finality that signalled the definite end of the conversation.

“Because that would make me a victim. And I _refuse_ to be a victim.” And, mused Tom thoughtfully, didn’t _that_ say everything about the boy’s approach to life.

XXX

Of course, the semi-truce they had mutually called during the discussion hadn’t lasted long. Only until the next morning, in fact, and considering they had been asleep for most of that time, that didn’t say much. Harry woke in a foul mood after nightmares invaded his dreams and made him wake several times in a cold sweat before he gave up and just decided to start working around 5am. It wasn’t a surprise, really, after the flashback he’d had in the apothecary.

It was just…He’d left the Dursleys behind. He’d left their house as soon as he’d turned seventeen, and he’d never even _considered_ returning, no matter how bad things had got on the Camping Trip from Hell. Hadn’t even given his relatives more than a passing thought. But seeing that man who vaguely resembled Uncle Vernon standing over a boy who vaguely resembled Harry himself… hearing ‘boy’ shouted in the same tones of disgust, the same attitude of complete disdain and revulsion…it had been like he had never left. For a moment, Harry had been unable to say whether it was the slave or Harry himself who was being shouted at, hit, kicked…

That Tom had had to pull him out of his haze had been embarrassing in the extreme. That his _enemy_ had seen him so weak as to have to be apparated home… an enemy who was powerful and accomplished enough that he didn’t need a wand for apparition. And his enemy had provoked him, had baited him until he had caused Harry to bring it all up again – all the hurt of being rejected and ignored, all the pain of being physically harmed and starved, all the negative feelings he had spent a long time burying.

But then, was Tom his enemy anymore? Voldemort had been vanquished, as the prophecy had said. But if he wasn’t the enemy, then he was a slave. And a slave who disobeyed his master’s wishes for him to be silent, who sat in a chair in his master’s presence without permission, who called him by his name without permission…was a badly behaved slave who needed to learn his place.

Sometimes Harry wondered at himself – why did he so want to see Tom submit? Why did he want the man to push at him, so he had the excuse to push back and put the man down _hard_? Most of the time, he was wary of that part of himself, and avoided Tom to make sure it didn’t come out. But sometimes, like when he was hungry or tired, it just felt so good to offload his discontent onto someone else. And when that someone else was a former Dark Lord who had tortured and killed his way through life…he had a good excuse.

Plus, he still worried about what could happen if he allowed the sneaky Slytherin more leeway. Or, well, he knew what had already happened – after being allowed to call him by his first name during their teaching sessions, he had started doing it at other times. Having been allowed to use the furniture during dinner and outside of Harry’s presence, he had started doing it _in_ Harry’s presence. And, it’s not that Harry was opposed to any of that behaviour _per se_ , it was just that he worried where it would end. He may trust in the collar, but he didn’t trust Tom.

The man was a predator, as much as any snake, and Harry _knew_ he’d been showing weakness yesterday. Was it any wonder his slave had tried to push things? Well, fine, but Harry would push back. He would show the man that a lion was _not_ prey and that he would forget that at his peril.

Mind made up, he marched towards the door of his slave’s room. Opening it, he cast _aguamenti_ , drenching the huddled figure on the bed. Tom shot awake with a gasp, falling out of bed as he flailed in the icy cold water.

“Get up,” Harry ordered sharply, casting _lumos_ to illuminate his slave’s bewildered expression.

“Harry?” Tom’s voice sounded just as confused as his face indicated he was feeling. Harry’s determination to punish him coalesced at his name coming from those perfect lips. Wait, _perfect_? He pushed the thought aside.

“ _Punire_ ,” he said, focusing his intention for his slave to feel pain for a few seconds before relaxing. Tom whimpered, his eyes screwed shut. Something almost like guilt fluttered in Harry’s stomach, but he pushed it away. This was not the time to be feeling guilt – if he didn’t do this now, he’d have to do worse later or face Tom going out of control. When the collar had released Tom and he pulled himself up into a kneeling position, Harry looked him firmly in the eyes.

“You are not teaching now; you do not have permission to call me by my first name,” he said quietly. Tom locked eyes with him for a long moment before looking away.

“Sorry, master,” he said, sounding like the words were being dragged out of him.

“You also do not have permission to use the furniture in my presence,” he continued. “I appreciated your help yesterday in the apothecary,” he said, because honestly, he had. Tom hadn’t had to tell him about the shopkeeper over-charging him, nor had he had to bring Harry out of his flashback. “That does not, however, give you permission to ignore other rules. As thanks for your help, your punishment will be less severe than it might otherwise have been.” Tom’s eyes held a hint of fear and Harry wasn’t sure if that satisfied or horrified him – his emotions were being torn in two directions and he didn’t like it. “Come,” he ordered, turning to go.

His idea was something that he had read about in one of the few books on slavery he had read before giving up in disgust. He hadn’t thought he’d use it, but needs must. Hearing the sound of footsteps on the stairs, he knew Tom was following, though he hadn’t really doubted it. Going to the sitting room, he went to his desk and found the chain leash that Tom had arrived with, all those weeks ago. Turning around, he saw the apprehension in his slave’s gaze and was satisfied.

“Master-” the man started, but Harry cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand.

“You spoke enough yesterday – you don’t get to speak now.” Tom closed his mouth and nodded while swallowing uneasily. Looking around, Harry chose his spot. The carpet didn’t cover the whole sitting room – in fact it was actually just a very large rug that covered the majority of the floor, but missed the corners of the room and a strip of bare boards around the edges. Pointing over to one of the stretches of bare boards, Harry commanded his slave to kneel. Tom obeyed, his growing nervousness showing in his slightly jerky movements. Sitting down on his heels, he looked up at Harry. “No, kneel up,” Harry said. Tom hesitated, looking confused. “I mean, stay on your knees, but don’t sit on your heels.” Understanding dawned and Tom moved into the correct position. Harry nodded in satisfaction.

Conjuring a metal hook, he attached it to the wall near Tom’s head. Clipping the leash to his collar, he fed the hook through one of the links, making it so that the chain was taut. He then used another spell to bend the hook so it closed into a complete loop. There was no way out of it without using magic or being strong enough to break the metal. Like this, Tom was stuck in his position. He might be able to crouch, though he’d risk choking himself if he tried and fell over, but he couldn’t sit and he certainly couldn’t stand without bending almost double.

“You’re going to stay here until I feel you’ve learnt your lesson sufficiently,” Harry told Tom, seeing the disbelief in his eyes. “You are not to make a sound unless you fear you’re at risk of significant injury. In that case, you can speak to me about it, _politely_. I will be here for most of the day, though I will be studying.” With that, he patted Tom’s cheek, then went to the kitchen for breakfast.

For the remainder of the morning, every time Harry looked up, he’d see Tom, and the sight sent mixed emotions through he every time. The slave was clearly uncomfortable, shifting around more and more frequently as time went on. Harry wasn’t surprised. It had to be hell on the knees and the thighs. And probably the back as well as he was forced into a straight position or risk being choked. It had to be boring as hell as well, and Harry wondered if that was actually more of a punishment for Tom than the physical aspect. From what he had gathered from odd comments the man had made, he got bored very easily and hated tasks which didn’t use his mind in any sort of way. Which, Harry had to admit, had been part of his decision to use this punishment.

Then, just before lunch, and as Harry was considering releasing Tom, they had an unexpected visitor, or rather, visitors. The wards alerted him first that there were people coming up the pathway, pulling him out of the pensieve. Frowning, he had gone to the front door, opening it as the person knocked. On the other side were two figures – a man and a woman – robed in black with the Ministry’s logo on their breasts.

“Mr Potter?” the woman closest to him asked, as if she hadn’t already cast her eyes over his scar which was visible since he had pinned his hair back to use the pensieve.

“Yes?”

“We’re from the Ministry Corrections department. My name is Julie Filgrove, and this is my colleague Ernest Brown.”

“Any relation to Lavender Brown?” Harry asked with some interest. The man smiled at him.

“My niece,” he admitted. “It’s a great honour to meet you Mr Potter! Lavender has always spoken very highly of you.” Harry smiled in response, not sure what to say.

“Be that as it may,” Ms Filgrove said, shooting a quelling look at her colleague, “unfortunately we are here because of a report made by a citizen yesterday about your control over your slave. You are the owner of Tom Marvolo Riddle, are you not?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, wondering first whether these two knew that Tom Marvolo Riddle was in fact the former Lord Voldemort and, second, what this was all about. Only the second seemed worth asking about. So he did.

“May we come in, Mr Potter? We would like to examine the slave in question anyway.” Sighing, Harry stood back and allowed them in. He led them to the sitting room and invited them to sit. A moment later, they evidently saw Tom. Following their gazes, Harry looked at in from their perspective. Tom had started trembling slightly from exhaustion about half an hour ago and when the collar shifted with his swaying, it revealed red lines on his throat from when he had accidentally choked himself. He had lines of pain around his eyes and mouth and his gaze was downcast. In short, he looked like exactly what he was – a disobedient slave being well-punished.

“Oh, is that...well, that must be him, right Mr Potter?” Mr Brown asked.

“I don’t tend to have strange men chained to my sitting room wall, so I suppose it must be,” replied Harry dryly. He immediately regretted his attempt at humour when Mr Brown blushed and looked away. “So, what is this about?” asked Harry, hoping to move the conversation on. 

“Did you visit Diagon Alley yesterday, Mr Potter?” Ms Filgrove asked briskly.

“I did,” he answered.

“And did you take your slave with you?”

“Yes.”

“Into Archibald’s Apothecary?”

“Yes, I wanted to buy some potions ingredients.” She made a note.

“During this time, did your slave speak?”

“Yes. The apothecary tried to overcharge me. My slave asked for permission before speaking and then told me about the unnecessary mark-up in price.”

“The report says that your slave called the shopkeeper a liar. Is this true?”

“No, _I_ called him a liar.” Ms Filgrove stared at him.

“Could you expand on that please, Mr Potter?”

“The man tried to say that my slave was lying. I knew that he wasn’t, so it was clear that the only person lying was the apothecary.” She frowned.

“How did you know your slave wasn’t lying, Mr Potter? I am very familiar with criminals and convicts, and I can assure you that most of them would lie to their own mothers, let alone anyone else.” Harry smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

“Ms Filgrove, are you familiar with the collar’s functioning?” She shrugged slightly.

“As much as most, I suppose.”

“Then when I say that I have a standing order that my slave never lies to me, I’m sure you’ll understand why I can be confident that the apothecary was the liar.”

“I see,” she replied, making a note. “Now, moving on. The report also states that upon leaving the shop, your slave called you by your first name, touched you without permission, and then pushed you out of the shop. Is this true?” she sounded somewhat disbelieving. Harry shrugged.

“Pretty much, although that’s only what an outsider would say looking in.”

“And what would you say, then?”

“That as a result of the war, I am left with some small level of trauma, as are many. I believe Lavender is currently seeing a therapist,” he said, nodding to Mr Brown. The other man nodded.

“She struggles to remember that the war is over, at times,” he said, his voice troubled. “It was hard on them, fighting in a war when they were nothing but children.”

“Indeed,” said Harry, leaving a pause for them to remember that _he_ was the same age as Lavender, younger even, and he had been fighting in the war a lot longer than she had. “Now, I’m sure you can understand that the sorts of scars left by being child soldiers do not just vanish with the end of the war. Unfortunately, occasionally I have moments when I too am not sure if the war has finished or not. One such moment happened while we were leaving the apothecary. My slave has standing orders on what he is and isn’t allowed to do to help me out of my fugue. Touching me and saying my name are two of those possible methods. He then guided me out of the shop so I could apparate us home. So you see, what may have seemed to be a slave taking liberties from an outside perspective, was in fact a slave following prior orders.”

“I see,” said Ms Filgrove once again, writing furiously. She looked up, her eyes slightly narrowed. “If your slave was simply following your orders, why is he being punished now?”

“Do I really need a reason?” asked Harry languidly, trying to channel a bit of Lucius Malfoy, the arrogant bastard he was. “After all, he’s here because of his actions during the war. Punishment is part of the motive, is it not?” He left a pause where they looked at him and then away awkwardly. “However, in this case, he is being punished because of actions since we returned home, not because of what he did while we were out. Do you have any further questions?” There was a pause while Ms Filgrove looked through her notes.

“Just one, really, then we will examine the slave and that will be the end of it. How have you found the experience so far? Have you had to punish him frequently?”

“Not hugely,” Harry admitted. “He’s one of the intelligent ones, so has figured out already that the more he obeys, the less he’s punished. I’ve been letting the collar do most of the small corrections for me. I haven’t had to resort to big corrections much.”

“I see.” Again, the quill darted over the parchment. “Right, thank you Mr Potter. We’ll just examine the slave now. Ernest?” The man pulled a device out of his pocket. It looked like an aerial, but with three large balls on one end. Mr Brown went over to Tom and touched the topmost ball to his collar. The slave glared weakly at him, but closed his eyes a moment later, shivering in evident pain. Mr Brown pulled the device away and held it up. The first ball lit up red with a 2 floating in it, the second lit up amber, and the third lit up green, the last two without any numbers. Harry thought it looked rather like a set of traffic lights.

“I see you have used the collar’s punishment function twice, Mr Potter.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s within acceptable parameters, when the second ball is taken into consideration,” he quickly continued when seeing Harry’s questioning look. “That’s the reading for the amount that he has been punished by the collar. If it had been red, we would have had to visit again later to make sure that you’re exposing your slave to sufficient extra-collar punishment.”

“And the green ball?” asked Harry, interested.

“That’s the strength of the collar’s enchantment. Near the slave’s release date, it starts weakening. If it starts weakening before that, it’s a concern.” He frowned. “But it’s strange – your slave doesn’t seem to have a release date marked…” Harry sighed. He’d hoped he would have managed to get through this without going into Tom’s original identity.

“Mr Brown, Ms Filgrove, can I have your word that the identity of my slave is confidential information?”

“Well, in as much as it is a matter of public record – anyone who wishes to see the results of the auction would be able to see the identity of the slave which you purchased.”

“I didn’t purchase him – I was given him by the Minister because of some special circumstances, so I’m not sure how much ‘public record’ there is. Can I have your word?” They exchanged glances, then turned back to Harry.

“Very well, Mr Potter,” replied Ms Filgrove. “We are professionals, so are discrete in speaking about our job anyway, but if it helps, we promise that we will not speak of this visit to anyone unnecessary.” Figuring that was the best he was going to get, Harry looked at them seriously.

“My slave was the former Lord Voldemort.” There were two gasps at the name, and the Ministry workers’ eyes were drawn inexorably towards the much-reduced figure on his knees, swaying from pain and exhaustion.

“And you took him into public?!” exclaimed Ms Filgrove, her voice high with fear. Harry gestured towards Tom.

“Look at him,” he said unnecessarily given that they were already staring at him. “The collar does an excellent job at preventing him from acting in any sort of dangerous way.” Harry neglected to mention his own worries about Tom’s manipulative tendencies, knowing that they would just muddy the waters. And truly, as long as the slave was never able to manipulate the ability to hurt others out of Harry, in the end, the only one he would hurt would be Harry himself, so his visitors didn’t need to worry. “So, the reason no release date is marked, is because there _is_ no release date.”

“I see,” said Ms Filgrove, her tone troubled, for all that it had some fear still remaining.

“Well, I think that’s a damn good thing,” said Mr Brown fervently. “Being in the same room as that monster is scary enough – knowing that he would one day be released back on the world…” He shuddered. “I, for one, am very glad he is in your capable hands, Mr Potter. Permanently.” He shot a look at his colleague and she nodded slowly.

“I suppose. Though it does rather obviate one of the purposes of this punishment – that of reformation.” Harry shrugged.

“Perhaps, but what Lady Magic wrought, is not up to us to undo. Now, is there anything else?” he asked, rather eager to get the two out of his house and return to his work – he was almost done and couldn’t wait to relax for a bit. The two Ministry workers returned to their professional selves. Ms Filgrove wrote once more on the pieces of parchment before tapping it with her wand. It duplicated itself and she gave the duplication to Harry.

“Here, Mr Potter.” Mr Brown cleared his throat and then spoke.

“This is a record of our visit clearing you in terms of your treatment of your slave. This is valid for six months, guaranteeing that you will not have another visit from us during that time. My colleague has, however, written a recommendation that you use extra force with _this_ particular slave. If we return at any point, we would expect to see much more frequent use of the collar’s punishment function, or some pensieve memories of active punishment, if that is your preference. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the slave does not have to behave badly to attract a punishment, and that in fact, sometimes giving a regular punishment reminds the slave of what will await him should he behave badly, and therefore nip any undesirable behaviour in the bud, so to speak.” Harry was starting to dislike Mr Brown – what he was suggesting sounded far too like the Dursleys for Harry’s peace of mind. Punishing just because he could? Still, he didn’t let any of that show on his face as he accepted the document.

“Thank you,” he said politely. Then, with nothing more to say or do, the two Ministry workers took their leave. Harry showed them to the door and shut it after them, then returned to the sitting room. Looking at Tom, he sighed.

“I think you’ve got the message,” he said finally. Moving over to the kneeling man, he unclipped the leash from his collar. The moment he did so, Tom crumpled to the ground, his muscles simply too overused to keep him upright any longer. Twisting slightly, the slave tapped his lips, his eyes shining a question at Harry. Harry understood the unspoken request. “Yes, you may speak. The punishment’s over.”

“Did you know?” asked Tom, his voice sounding rough after not having been used for several hours. He cleared it and tried again. “Did you know about the Ministry, master?” he clarified, sounding smoother. Harry hesitated. What would be the best thing to say here? If he said he’d known, it would make him seem more omniscient than he actually was. But then it might obviate the reason for the punishment – Tom might think it had been a carefully prepared show rather than a genuine correction. But if he said he hadn’t known…well, that might actually reinforce the lesson about public behaviour as well as the lesson Harry had been trying to teach him.

“No,” he said honestly, and saw an unreadable emotion pass through Tom’s eyes. The man nodded slowly.

“Master, you lied. You said you had given me permission beforehand to touch you, to call you by your name, and that you apparated us. But you’ve just punished me for the same. Why?” Harry considered the question.

“First of all, I meant what I said to them, and to you this morning – your punishment today was nothing to do with what happened while we were out. You were punished because _after_ we had returned, you took advantage of my weakened state to disobey standing rules in terms of sitting on a chair in my presence and calling me by my name out of the teaching context. Not to mention pushing me to talk when I didn’t want to. No, I _appreciated_ what you did for me while we were out – helping me with the apothecary, pulling me out of my fugue. That’s why you didn’t have a few rounds of _punire_ before being chained up. And that’s why I lied – when I appreciated your efforts, why would I throw you under the bus?”

“I see,” Tom said thoughtfully, then added on a quick, “Thank you, master.” Harry nodded, then moved back to his desk. He just had to finish this final assignment and then he was done. Absently, he was aware of Tom shifting around, moaning slightly in pain as he tried to put weight on his tortured legs and not managing. Finally, Harry realised the noises were coming closer and he turned to see Tom half-dragging himself toward Harry’s desk.

“What are you doing?” he asked, confused.

“I can’t get up,” Tom admitted.

“OK,” Harry replied, “but why are you coming _this way_?” As he spoke, Tom reached him. Settling beside his chair, he evidently tried to pull himself to a kneeling position, but grimaced as weight was put on probably bruised knees. Harry summoned a cushion, still not sure why he was enabling this. “Here.”

“Thank you, master,” Tom said gratefully, tucking it under. Deciding not to push for an answer, since he had an assignment to finish and had no desire to get into _another_ argument at this point, he ignored Tom’s movements. Besides, how much trouble could he get into, kneeling by Harry’s chair?

A few minutes later, Tom shifted so he was half-sitting on the cushion, his legs out to one side, which also meant he was leaning against Harry’s legs. Harry looked down questioningly.

“My knees hurt,” he said in explanation. Harry ended up shrugging and continuing – again, it wasn’t worth an argument. And besides, feeling Tom’s warm weight against his legs was actually pretty nice. When Tom’s head came to lean on Harry’s leg a few minutes later, Harry found himself starting to stroke through his hair absently. And that was also pretty nice.

It seemed to be pleasant for Tom too, as perhaps ten minutes later, he was relaxing into Harry’s legs even more and his breathing took on a more even tone. Looking down, Harry realised he had fallen asleep, or was at least dozing. Harry continued running his fingers through Tom’s silky locks gently, enjoying the feel.

When he finished his assignment, he decided it would be a pity to wake the slumbering man, so he simply summoned Quidditch Weekly to relax for what was left of the weekend.

XXX


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like cats newly introduced into the same space, Harry and Tom have been testing boundaries and each other, and are finally managing to find an equilibrium. However, this new-found entente cordiale risks being upset as new challenges appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I might actually manage to finish this in a reasonable amount of time, given what's happened so far... Fingers crossed, right? I have managed to plot the events to the end, now, so that's a positive sign. We've got a roller-coaster ahead of us, but I'm sure you'll enjoy the ride as much as I've been enjoying writing it :D
> 
> Incidentally, there is a scene in here which is the most uncomfortable thing I've written so far in this story (intentionally) - I'll be interested to see what you think about it. Also, there is a graphic description of an open wound near the end, so if you're squeamish, maybe skim over that bit. 
> 
> Also, on another note, I'm pretty sure this is now going to be a Harry/Tom pairing, though I'm still not entirely sure how it's going to look like. But yes, for those who have been asking me whether it's going to be Tomarry, I think I can safely say at this point that it is. :D
> 
> Enjoy the chapter :D

Gardening was a lot more interesting than cleaning, Tom thought as he cast a spell at a vine reaching towards him, smirking as he saw it wither away and heard a high pitched screeching noise. At least ninety percent of that was probably the fact that he could use magic, but he was pretty sure that he’d still find gardening more interesting than cleaning. Though, that might just be _this_ type of gardening which was a lot less about making plants grow, and more destruction of all the overgrown monsters. As expected of one of the most notorious dark families in the British Wizarding world, most of the specimens which had taken over would be better placed in Hogwarts’ Greenhouse Four, or banned completely. A vine tried to wrap around his ankle, aiming to yank him off his feet. Tom cast a fire whip and his bloodthirsty smirk widened as it turned to ash at the first touch.

It has been almost two weeks since the Ministry had visited, since Tom had been chained to the wall like a dog. He grimaced at the memory. That punishment had _not_ been pleasant. For all that it had seemed so easy at first, kneeling up for hours without respite had been pure torture. His knees had started aching after less than half an hour, and his thighs had started protesting not long after. By the end, all that was keeping him upright had been the sheer force of his will and lack of desire to hang in the collar, gasping and choking.

He still didn’t know why, upon being released, he had sought comfort from his master. He had been somewhat out of his mind from the pain, boredom, and exhaustion, after all. Perhaps it had been a case of knowing he couldn’t escape from the room in his state, and wanting to be certain that the punishment was over. Perhaps a small part of his brain had recognised that if he was leaning against his master and the man was stroking his hair gently, then it meant he was safe.

Tom felt very uncomfortable at that idea, because it meant that the collar was maybe starting to win. That it was succeeding in its aim of creating an obedient pet. He would much rather believe that it was his manipulative side recognising that if he made himself seem vulnerable, the boy would rather protect him than hurt him further.

But that didn’t really fit, either. Perhaps it was simply that Tom had understood why Harry had decided to punish him, but had also appreciated the steps his master had taken to protect him from the Ministry. After all, no one had ever really _defended_ him before, not when there wasn’t some tangible benefit to them to do so, at least. All this was added to the very real fact that he would have found it difficult to climb the stairs to his room and had wanted to be comfortable.

Either way, Tom had been turning several thoughts over in his mind. The first was the question about why he had leant against his master’s knee and enjoyed him stroking his hair so much that he fell asleep, despite his _master_ being surely the _last_ person he should feel comfortable with. The second had been the revelation about Harry’s childhood. Or, really, it had been a complete revision of what he had thought he had known about the boy. The image he had had from various people, _Severus_ especially – which, given what he now knew about the man’s loyalties, he should have considered more carefully long ago – and had found it definitely didn’t match the reality of what he had observed over the last month and a half.

He had been told that the boy was arrogant, lazy, not stupid but certainly not all that smart, brave to the point of foolishness, and really only good at sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. While possessing Quirrell, he had been unable to pay much attention to the world around, though he had observed the boy who had defeated him. What he had seen in First year hadn’t impressed him – a little scrap of a boy who didn’t try very hard at his assignments and who was never the first to learn a spell. At the end of that year, he had been mildly impressed at the strength of will shown by this otherwise unremarkable child, though it had been frustrating to him at the time. The way he had forced Lord Voldemort out of his host, however, had been sheer luck and his mother’s sacrifice – nothing otherwise special about the boy at all.

Similarly, the boy’s performance in the Triwizard Tournament had been unimpressive except in his ability to avoid death by the skin of his teeth and in his bravery to stand up to threats which would have made a grown wizard run away in fear. His spell-casting abilities at the end of his Fifth year might have been somewhat remarkable in another student, but for the prophesised vanquisher of Lord Voldemort…they had been somewhat subpar. Once more, it had been sheer luck and the sacrifice of others which had won the day for him.

Lord Voldemort had had to revise his opinion slightly of the boy during the years following, however, as Harry turned from a mere annoyance like a biting fly to a semi-serious threat with the help of the Resistance. Still, Lord Voldemort had been close to winning, when the wretched boy had pulled that ridiculous ritual out of nowhere, and now here they were.

But now, having spent some time with Harry, Tom had come to realise something – they were actually remarkably similar. With the revelation of his less than stellar childhood, Tom could see things in a different light. Where Tom had used the knowledge of his remarkableness to gain power and thereby dominate the people around him, Harry had chosen to hide in plain sight, to be what the people looking at him expected to see.

Sorted into Slytherin, Tom had been forced to fight for his place – as a ‘mudblood’ in Slytherin, at least until the revelation of his heritage, he had had to either fight to be at the top, or allow himself to be at the bottom; there hadn’t been any other choice. Sorted into Gryffindor, Harry hadn’t needed to fight, but if what Tom had observed of the Gryffindors in his day had held true in more recent years, he had probably been faced with the knowledge that if he didn’t fit in, he would be an outcast. So he had chosen to fit in. And Gryffindors weren’t known for either their studiousness or their work ethic; they were known for their bravery. So Harry had been a Gryffindor, whether it had been a conscious or unconscious choice.

The boy he’d seen in the last few weeks had been very different. Out of Hogwarts, away from the pressures of school life, and with something to aim towards that he desperately wanted, his studious and hard-working self had been revealed. Tom had been somewhat amazed at seeing his master spend every minute of the waking day working, especially when he remembered how many times he had had the impression from others that the boy was lazy.

Then there was how he had treated his slave. It hadn’t been how Tom had expected. Upon finding out that he was to be his nemesis’ slave for the rest of his life, he had had two ideas of how it would go. The first was how he would have treated the boy had the positions been reversed – pain and humiliation filling every day until he became bored. In that case, Tom had been determined to last through it, unbroken, and then find a way to get his revenge later. The other had been more of what he would have expected from Dumbledore’s protégé – barely being treated like a slave at all, but expected to show signs of ‘redemption’ as a result of the ‘generous’ treatment, always the reminder that should he not seem appropriately ‘grateful’, all the ‘privileges’ he was allowed could easily be removed. Had that happened, he would have made sure to say the right words, make the right gestures; all the while attempting to find a way to escape.

What he’d actually experienced… well, it was a mixture of the two. His master certainly enjoyed his pain, his humiliation, but he seemed to have enough morals not to do either of those without provocation of some sort. Though it seemed like should he arrive home in a bad mood for some reason, he was happy to provoke a reaction which could then be punished without guilt. Yet at other times he made gestures which threw Tom off guard – giving him a flashlight soon after his arrival so he could read at night if he couldn’t sleep because of nightmares, coming to his defence against the apothecary and then the Ministry, giving him a cushion when his knees hurt after a punishment….

It was strange and Tom was coming to fear that this approach was affecting him more than the other two would have. Not to mention, of course, that Tom had an uncomfortable awareness that his influence had shaped the boy’s life, and not for the better. There was no doubt that Harry’s poor childhood could mostly be laid at the feet of those who had left him with his relatives, and those who hadn’t taken action upon noticing no doubt obvious signs of mistreatment. There was, however, also no question that had Harry’s parents not been killed, he wouldn’t have been at risk of it in the first place. There was a niggling feeling of something unfamiliar in Tom’s stomach, and he suspected it was what they might call guilt…

Still, maybe he didn’t need to think too much about it all – it would soon be just another period of his life which he put firmly in the past where it belonged. He had made some good progress in his research: he had discovered a spell which could help him greatly in mapping the arithmantic diagram of his collar. Once he had done that, he would have a better chance of finding its weak point. And then…then, he would be _free_.

XXX

Harry was just leaving Hogwarts, his head full of information that he had learned from his professors that day. It was strange, but he had to say that _Tom_ was actually more engaging than most of his actual teachers…He wasn’t sure why, but perhaps it helped that the man really wasn’t hard on the eyes… Not that he allowed himself to think along those lines very often, inappropriate as they were. Still, the combination of looks and voice somehow made even the driest of subjects interesting. Of course it also helped that Tom was focused on him and him alone, where the professors divided their attention between all the students in their class at that time.

After Harry had managed to catch up with his work for the Aurors, he had started engaging Tom’s help with his NEWTs work again. Because of that, even in just a week, he felt he had gained a lot more understanding of the basics of Magical and Potions theory. He still marvelled that he had managed to get to NEWTs level in his studies without actually understanding all the basics. Maybe that said something about the school examination system, but he’d leave that sort of thing to people like Hermione to sort out.

They’d also being doing a few duels recently. The thrill of fighting a skilled opponent without the worry of death or significant injury was both refreshing and relaxing – he was pretty sure Tom felt the same way. Certainly, they’d managed to get on better in recent weeks ever since Harry had punished Tom and the Ministry had visited; perhaps the regular stress-relief was why.

“Hey, Harry!” Harry stopped and turned as the familiar voice of his best friend met his ears. He smiled as the red-head ran towards him. “Wait up!” Evidently Ron hadn’t realised he’d already stopped.

“Desperate to escort me to the gates, are we Mr Weasley?” he asked teasingly.

“What? No, ew,” Ron said, his face screwing up as he understood Harry’s implication. During their time sharing a tent, sexuality had inevitably come up, and their long-lasting discussion had revealed two things: first, Harry was most likely bi since he had admitted to finding several guys – including Ron’s brother Bill – hot; second, Ron was a good bro and didn’t have any problems with Harry being bi, but he’d really rather not know all the details, especially about any member of his family, Ginny included. Of course, the last had died a swift death after the war, and Bill was married, so… “No, mum’s asking if you’re coming over this week for Sunday lunch.”

“Of course,” Harry said. “Wouldn’t miss it.” Ron broke out in a smile.

“Can I just say how relieved I am to hear you say it, mate? ‘Cause if I went home and told mum you weren’t coming, I think she’d take up shooting the messenger…” Harry frowned.

“Why wouldn’t you expect me there? I mean, I know I didn’t come the last couple of times, but there were kinda extenuating circumstances.” Ron grinned at him.

“Well, with your boy-toy at home-“

“He’s not my boy-toy,” replied Harry sharply. More sharply than was really necessary, if he was honest. Ron looked at him curiously.

“OK, Mr Touchy. Your _slave_ , then. Better?” Not really, but Harry just gestured impatiently for Ron to go on. “So, we weren’t sure whether you would want to leave him alone for that length of time.” Ron hesitated. “I don’t think bringing him to the family gathering would be the best idea.” No. Harry was _fully_ in agreement there. Bringing the instigator of the two most recent Wizarding wars into a household where three members of the matriarch’s immediate family had been killed by Death Eaters and others had been badly scarred…no. Not the best of ideas.

“It’s OK, I leave him at home alone for lots of time during the week when I come here and go to Auror training.” Ron eyed him.

“And you trust him to behave?” Harry grimaced.

“Not exactly. More like I trust the collar to stop him from doing anything too bad.” Ron shrugged.

“I suppose. But it’s Voldemort, you know. If it were me, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.” Harry shrugged in response.

“In the end, there’s a limited amount I can do, you know. If he tries to hurt someone with magic or physically, he is prevented from doing so by the collar. Everything else is less important whether he does it or doesn’t. And it’s not like I could keep him chained up all the time, is it? I’ve got to give him _some_ trust, or at least trust the _collar_.”

“I don’t see why not,” muttered Ron darkly. “It’d be what he deserved for what he did – being chained up in the basement.” Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron. “He killed Fred,” his friend finally said. “George…isn’t taking it well.”

“Technically, _he_ wasn’t the one who did it,” defended Harry weakly, not knowing why he said it when he was thinking the same thing. Ron looked at him angrily.

“He as good as did it! And you know it.” Harry shrugged slightly – what could he say? There was silence for a few moments until they reached Hogwarts’ gates. “Anyway,” Ron continued, his voice calmer. “I guess I’ll see you on Sunday.” Harry nodded and tried to smile. Ron tried to give him one in response, but Harry wondered whether his own attempt was as poor as Ron’s. With an unspoken mutual decision, they apparated away at the same time.

Harry arrived on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place and went in. He couldn’t see Tom, but there was the sound of spellfire echoing through the corridors. He followed it into the garden and stood in the doorway, watching Tom doing battle with the plants of the garden. At the moment, he was fighting something that looked rather like the Venomous Tentacular in Greenhouse Four at Hogwarts. For a moment, Harry found his eyes tracing Tom’s elegant limbs, found himself admiring the graceful gestures and how he transitioned from one spell to another in smooth movements. Not a flick was wasted, the final flow of one spell shifting directly into the beginnings of the next, each spell wordless. It looked more like a dance than a fight, but its effectiveness could be seen on the threatening plant.

In that moment, Harry truly understood how Tom could have been considered a formidable opponent – it wasn’t his power, although he had that in spades, but how he effortlessly controlled the pace of the fight. And then Ron’s words echoed in his head, ‘ _He killed FredI’_ and Harry forced his eyes away. Casting _tempus_ , he nodded. Tom had five more minutes before he needed to put his wand away and go in for dinner. Harry didn’t want to be caught watching when he did. Turning away, he went back into the house.

XXX

That Sunday, Harry left Tom at home with strict instructions to ‘behave’ and a list of chores to be done. He then apparated to The Burrow. Walking up its path and seeing its familiar chaos, he smiled, a weight seeming to fall off his shoulders. Entering the door, he immediately felt at home, as he had from the first time he had entered.

“Harry!” exclaimed Mrs Weasley, coming forwards to embrace him tightly. “It’s been too long!” Pulling away, Harry blinked away a slight wetness in the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t realised how much tension he had been under recently, even in his own home, before he came here again.

“It has, Mrs Weasley,” Harry replied, trying to stop his voice from croaking badly. Mrs Weasley gave him a knowing look, but didn’t say anything which Harry was grateful for.

“Ah, well. Don’t be such a stranger next time, then. You know you’re always welcome – you don’t have to wait for our monthly family dinners to come around.” Harry nodded, though he knew he probably wouldn’t take her up on it, just as he hadn’t for the past four months. He just felt too much guilt at how his presence had impacted this family, not to mention how he was harbouring the architect of both wars.

“Thanks, Mrs Weasley.” She gave him a stern look.

“None of that, now. What have I told you?”

“Sorry, Molly,” Harry apologised, a slight smile playing at his lips. It was a familiar dialogue – had been since she had cornered him more than a year ago, telling him to call her Molly ‘for goodness sake!’ since he had been like one of her own for years. Harry had an idea that she would like him to call her ‘mum’, but that didn’t feel right. Harry had had his own mum, even if she had died, and Molly hadn’t really filled her role, much as Harry was grateful for her presence in his life. He knew she had been disappointed when he and Ginny hadn’t picked up their relationship again once the war had ended, but he was done fitting everyone’s expectations just to be accepted, well-meaning as they may be.

Molly huffed, but couldn’t help the smile from curving the corners of her mouth. How she had managed to keep a straight face throughout Fred and George’s childhood, but still be affected by Harry, he really didn’t know.

“Well, get on with you then,” she admonished him playfully. “Go and help the others, if you don’t mind – they’re in the back yard setting up the table. Since it’s still lovely, despite being October, I thought we could eat outside.” Harry nodded and moved towards the door.

Pausing in the doorway, he took in the always-overwhelming sight of a flock – or was it a pride? – of Weasleys. Five…no, seven red heads ran hither and thither, somehow managing to avoid barging each other. Probably sheer practice, Harry guessed. He saw the bushy brown head of his other best friend, and the beautiful blonde locks of his honorary sister-in-law. Huh, he was pretty sure he caught sight of Angelina when the red filling his vision cleared for a moment. Had she come with George?

“Harry!” his name being called once more pulled him out of reverie. In a moment, he was smothered once more in another embrace, this time curly brown hair trying its best to choke him.

“Hermione!” he protested, spitting out strands that had got in his mouth as she pulled back.

“Well, what do you expect when I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in almost two months?” Harry worked it out.

“Hermione, it’s barely more than a month since we last saw each other.” Her face clouded over as the memory of that brief and uncomfortable encounter resurfaced.

“Oh, yes.” Her tone was subdued and she eyed him warily. “How are you? And how’s…he?” Harry examined her expression. It was both troubled and uneasy. If he had to guess, he’d have to say that she was troubled about Harry being forced to live with _Voldemort_ , and uneasy because of the whole master/slave thing. He was careful to be nonchalant in his response.

“Oh, we’re doing fine. A few small hitches here and there, of course, but it’s surprisingly easy to avoid each other most of the time.” She examined him as if to check whether he was lying, though Harry wasn’t sure which she would be most upset about: if he was miserable living with his nemesis; or if he was beating said nemesis to a pulp every evening.

Their moment was disrupted by George coming up and clapping Harry heartily on the shoulder.

“Hello stranger,” he said cheerfully. “You missed the last two times.” Harry shrugged, smirking.

“I was worried about what you’d do to the food.” He winked as George chuckled.

“Then maybe you’d better run away, o’ fearful, and soon to be feathered, one.” Harry put on a mock expression of fear.

“Not _canaries_ again!” George winked at him, gasping in mock-outrage.

“Nope, as if we’d-“ he halted, wincing. Harry felt for him. “As if, _I’d_ ever be that uncreative!” George finished, a lot more subdued than when he had started.

“So,” Harry said, hoping to steer the conversation away from painful subjects. “Are you the one who brought Angelina around?” George regained his grin, though it had a hint of pain to it that Harry had never noticed before.

“Who else is handsome and clever enough to convince the angelic chaser of the Holyhead Harpies?” he asked rhetorically.

“Weasley!” Angelina called, and seven heads turned to her. “Oh for Merlin’s… I meant the stupid one. Quit making plays on my name!”

“Well, that told you,” Harry muttered to George who looked a bit crestfallen. He drew himself up.

“Alas,” he continued, winking once more at the amused Harry and Hermione. “It seems like my lady love needs some soothing. Onwards!” he cried, pretending he was on a horse and charging towards Angelina who looked rather alarmed. Harry shook his head, smiling, then exchanged a look with Hermione. It was good to see some things never changed.

They were called for dinner shortly after and Harry found himself thoroughly enjoying the rest of the afternoon and then the evening. Enjoying it too much, perhaps. Fleur had made an announcement during dessert – she was pregnant! Of course, that was the signal to bring out the booze to toast the witch (for getting pregnant), her husband (for getting her pregnant), Harry (for ending the war), Weasleys in general (for being ridiculously fertile), and basically anything else they could even _vaguely_ link to the wonderful news. Heck, they had even toasted _The Burrow_ and _France_ because those were where the happy parents-to-be had grown up.

Needless to say, Molly had been ecstatic at the news of an impending grandchild, but when she had started rounding on the unmarried members of her family, Charlie in particular, people had started giving her a wide berth. Also needless to say…Harry was more than slightly tipsy. In the end, he had flooed home, not trusting his ability to apparate in one piece. It would be rather embarrassing to be splinched on his doorstep and have to ask _Tom_ for help.

Staggering through his fireplace, he sighed, smoothing a hand over his face. Glancing at the clock, he squinted for a moment before the hands resolved themselves into positions that made sense. Almost 3am… Much as he just wanted to go to bed at that moment, he supposed he ought to check on his unwanted house-guest. And if he was going to manage to check on him without waking him up, he probably ought to be more sober. Heading to the drinks cabinet, he rummaged around a bit before finding the sobering potion. Wasn’t it a good thing that the shelf-life for sobering potions was so long? He was pretty sure these were from when Sirius had been in residence.

Throwing it back and grimacing at the obligatory terrible taste, he soon found his head clearing and the world settled down from its previous listing. Becoming aware that his clothes smelled of firewhisky from when one of the Weasleys – he wasn’t sure which one – had bumped into him, he cast a quick cleaning charm. Then, moving quietly up the stairs, he gently turned the handle of Tom’s bedroom. Looking in, he frowned. The bed was smooth, made. It hadn’t been slept in, that was for sure.

Harry lit his wand and used it to illuminate the rest of the room in case Tom, inexplicably, had decided to sleep on the floor. Nothing. Anxiety started clenching at his stomach, but Harry calmed it down with the reminder that his slave couldn’t leave the house, not with that collar on. He cast a quiet point-me spell, and followed the wand’s direction up the stairs. It led him to the library. What a surprise! Harry rolled his eyes. Tom was as bad as Hermione when it came to libraries, it seemed.

Tom was asleep, his head cradled on his arms on the table top. Harry moved closer, his wand-tip illuminating the man’s relaxed expression. Tom Riddle awake was gorgeous, sure, but asleep…there was an innocence to his expression which really shouldn’t be there, all things considered. But it was, and it was…enchanting. Harry found his hand reaching out without his permission towards an errant lock that had fallen over Tom’s closed eyes, and tucked it behind his ear. He then withdrew as if he’d touched something red hot, a thrill of panic running through him at the thought that the man would wake up. But no. He was deeply asleep.

“Tom,” he said, quietly. No response. Sighing, Harry decided that he was too nice to leave the man to sleep on a library table all night – his neck and back would be killing him the next morning. Incanting the Locomotion spell, he lifted Tom gently with his magic and carried him down the stairs. Opening the door of his room again, he set the man gently on his bed. He wasn’t going to tuck Tom into bed, but at least the man would be more comfortable.

Leaving the room and closing the door, he paused for a moment, looking towards his own bedroom with longing, but a thought had occurred to him. Normally, Tom was very careful about tucking his books away, and Harry hadn’t been so anxious to know what he was reading to go searching for the slightly less dusty tomes. Now, however…Tom had fallen asleep on top of whatever he was reading and Harry was rather curious about his slave’s research. He justified it with the excuse that the man could be researching something dangerous. A reasonable concern, given the person he was thinking about.

Heading back up the stairs, he used _lumos_ again to see what Tom had open on the desk. A few minutes of scanning the pages and Harry had his answer. He wasn’t really sure what to feel about Tom researching the collar and other binding enchantments. Of course, he knew why. And frankly, he didn’t really blame the man for trying to break his chains – it was what Harry would do in his place. So in that respect, he understood it. But still, he wondered whether he should forbid Tom from his research.

He could, of course. With the right words, he would be able to close down any avenue Tom could use to find information. With the right words. And therein lay the rub. The problem with that thought was that Tom was a consummate Slytherin – an expert at finding loopholes in the law, the unspoken in the spoken. And it meant that Harry wouldn’t _know_ what he was doing. He would end up constantly worrying that Tom had found a way around his orders without his knowledge. Like this, at least, he would know for certain that Tom was doing his best to escape. That was better than uncertainty, in Harry’s opinion.

Harry had, as well, a significant amount of interest in whether Tom actually _could_ find a way to break the collar’s enchantment. He rather doubted it, considering it was _Lady Magic_ who had done it, but he supposed that if anyone was going to find a way out, it would be the man who had been one of Hogwarts’ most brilliant students. And like this, forewarned was forearmed – Harry knew he was trying, so would hopefully not be caught off guard if he was successful. And if he wasn’t…well, that was important to know too.

If he blocked Tom’s efforts, the man would never fully submit to his role – there would always be the part of him that said he would be able to find a way out, if only he was given the opportunity. If the man tried, and failed, he would have no choice but to accept the reality of the situation, which might lead to a slightly more peaceful life for Harry.

So, ultimately, Harry left the library and went to bed, leaving the books untouched on the table and having no intention to speak of what he had learned with Tom.

XXX

Tom woke up in his bed. Or rather _on_ his bed. He frowned. It wasn’t that sleeping in (or on) his bed was anything particularly noteworthy in or of itself; it was the lack of memory of _how_ he had got there that had him racking his brains. The last thing he remembered was researching the spell he’d found along with general information about enslavement enchantments. He’d decided to spend the time his master was out with his friends doing research, taking advantage of the cat being away and all that. Harry had been out very late, though. Past midnight, at least, and Tom had started feeling really sleepy.

His eyes widening, he took in the fact that he was _on_ his bed, _in_ his clothes, and that he couldn’t remember _how_ he had got there… Oh hell. Had his master put him to bed? Then another thought followed swiftly on the heels of that one, making the bottom drop out of his stomach. If his master had put him to bed…he would have seen the books Tom had been reading. Jumping out of bed, he tore out of the room and took the stairs two at a time. Entering the library, his heart racing, he saw the table exactly as he remembered it from last night – strewn with books and now bearing the slight imprint of his arms in the slightly crumpled pages.

Tom blushed slightly at the confirmation of his thoughts on the events of last night, but his heart started calming down at the lack of change as it pertained to the books. Could his master have simply not looked at them? He supposed it had been dark; maybe Harry hadn’t bothered with casting a _lumos_ and had just levitated him out of the room and to his bedroom? The moment of panic had given way to a gnawing anxiety in his gut at the uncertainty.

Since his master hadn’t shouted after him to find out what the racket was about, Tom guessed that he was at the Ministry already. Maybe he hadn’t seen anything, but maybe he had and he would come back and punish Tom at the end of the day….

XXX

Three days later and Tom still hadn’t heard anything about his books from his master. And by that, he meant that he hadn’t heard _anything_. No comment, no order, no question, nothing. Even Harry’s tone and eyes hadn’t revealed any sense of heightened awareness or suspicion. After spending three days walking on eggshells, Tom was feeling a bit of a nervous wreck.

Deciding enough was enough, he put the whole situation out of his mind. If his master hadn’t said anything, surely it proved that he hadn’t _seen_ anything, didn’t it? Obviously, when he had moved Tom, he hadn’t used any spell that produced light – not surprising, since it was impossible to cast two channelled spells through the same wand at the same time, and he doubted that Harry was capable of any wandless magic, or of dual-casting. And then he must have not been curious enough to do anything more than go to bed. Nodding decisively, Tom felt more relaxed than he had for days. That evening, he even joined his master in the sitting room again, relaxing by the fire with a book.

Since that evening a few weeks ago where he had knelt by his master’s chair, leaning against his legs and feeling his hand card through his hair, he had found himself occasionally wondering what would happen if he did it again. Then he would catch himself and furiously deny that the sensation he had felt of safety and relaxation held any appeal. And _then_ he would wonder whether actually it would be a good tactic to use in order to slither his way into his master’s good graces… The debate continued in Tom’s head. He figured he probably _would_ repeat his actions at some point, if only to see whether he felt the same when not half out of his mind from pain and exhaustion. But it wouldn’t be that evening, he decided.

Of course, that’s when Harry had to upset the applecart.

“Tom,” he said suddenly, breaking the almost-comfortable silence between them.

“Yes, master?” His heart started hammering. Was this it? Was this when he would be punished? Ordered not to pursue his research any further?

“We’ll be having two guests over on Saturday.” Oh. The sense of relief was overwhelming, then his master’s words registered. Guests?

“Master?” he said, allowing his confusion to show in his voice, twisting to face Harry.

“They’ll be coming for dinner. I want you to prepare a decent meal for all of us, though you’ll be eating in the kitchen.” He paused as if thinking. “Unless you _wanted_ to eat on the floor at my feet, that is.” Tom was pretty sure his revulsion at the idea was written clearly on his face. Harry chuckled. “Thought not. I’ve put a couple of muggle recipe books in the kitchen in case you’re interested. It’ll be a three course meal – something I know you haven’t really practised.” This was sounding better and better. Note the sarcasm, Tom thought with irritation. “And of course,” Harry said, almost as an afterthought, “since they’re guests, you’ll be expected to act accordingly, no matter _who_ they are.”

“Meaning…?” asked Tom leadingly, his mind puzzling over the question of the guests’ identities. With the way his master had emphasised ‘who’, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it at all. Well, at least he knew it couldn’t be _Dumbledore_.

“Meaning you’ll need to be polite, refrain from hurting or damaging the property of both guests, speak only when spoken to, serve us at the table and be available throughout the meal in case we need something…That sort of thing.” Tom couldn’t _wait_.

“As you wish, _master_ ,” he grumbled, knowing that he really didn’t get a say in this. Oh, but when he succeeded in getting rid of this collar… The thought calmed him enough to meet his master’s gaze with equanimity. After a long moment, Harry made a humphing noise, and then turned back to his book. Tom smiled to himself – evidently he hadn’t got the reaction he was looking for. How _terrible_ for him…

XXX

Saturday evening had arrived and Harry greeted it with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. He was having second, third thoughts about his invitation, but still felt that Snape deserved some closure after what he’d done for their side during the war. And after he’d offered the invitation, he couldn’t very well say no when Kingsley had approached him during the day on Wednesday, could he? Even if he doubted that he’d be able to get through an entire meal in close quarters with the acerbic Potions Master without losing his temper…. He was starting to regret that he’d told Tom to make a three course meal – a two course meal would have been polite enough, wouldn’t it? Too late now, though. He still hadn’t chosen to tell his slave who was coming, and the revelation of that identity was one of the few things he was anticipating.

A knock fell on the door and Harry hurried to open it. Actually, they could just walk in, but he appreciated the courtesy. As soon as the door was open, he was met with Kingsley’s easy smile and a bottle of wine.

“Good evening, Harry. I figured we’ll probably need this as the evening wears on.” Accepting it with a smile and a word of thanks, and privately agreeing, Harry stepped aside to let them enter.

“Potter,” was Snape’s much less effusive greeting, but at least his tone was almost neutral for once.

“Would you like a drink before dinner?” Harry asked, gesturing towards the stocked drinks cabinet in the corner. Not that _he_ had stocked it, but there were plenty of alcohols which hadn’t even been touched by the neglect of the house, and were still perfectly good. Kingsley considered it.

“I’ll have a firewhisky, if you have it,” he said. Harry nodded – he knew he had at least two bottles of the stuff, though honestly couldn’t tell the difference between them. Looking expectantly at Snape, he got a stiff nod.

“The same, please.” Pouring the drinks and passing them out, he searched for a conversation topic. “Where is that _slave_ of yours, then?” asked Snape, sounding like he was struggling to control glee at being able to call his former master a ‘slave’. Harry supposed he deserved some pleasure at the thought, after the hell Voldemort had put his followers through over the years, and the risks he had taken with his spying – that was the purpose of this evening, after all. But something in Harry still felt slightly uneasy at his expression…

“He’s in the kitchen, cooking,” Harry replied shortly. Snape shot him a disbelieving look.

“You trust him not to _poison_ us?” For some reason, Harry felt like bristling at that – what did he think Tom was, some _amateur_? But then, it was a valid concern, wasn’t it?

“He knows better than to try,” was his answer. Snape harrumphed, but didn’t reply.

“So, Harry, how are you finding the Aurors?” asked Kingsley, breaking the silence. Harry smiled – a conversation topic he could happily talk about.

“As you warned, it’s been a lot of hard work, but is really interesting!” the dark-skinned man smiled, his white teeth a flash in his face.

“What have you found the most interesting so far?” They got into a cheerful conversation about the various classes Harry was taking, Snape silently swirling his drink around his glass, looking bored. Then, like a hunting hound spotting prey, he stiffened. Harry noticed the difference and followed the man’s gaze to the doorway. Tom had appeared, and he too had become very stiff. His eyes blazed and his hands had clenched into white-knuckled fists.

“Are these your guests, master?” he asked quietly, but intensely, his voice fighting to keep itself level. Harry nodded. He wondered whether he should remind the man that he should treat his guests with respect, but looking at his careful control, Harry suspected it wasn’t necessary. Tearing his eyes away from glaring at Snape, he looked at Harry, fire still making his eyes a vivid scarlet. “Are you ready for me to start serving?” he asked, still with the same forcible calm. Harry considered it. Normally he would expect there to be a bit more pre-dinner conversation…but in this case, he suspected it would be best to get to the main part of the evening as quickly as possible.

“Yes please, Tom.” The man disappeared almost as quickly as if he had apparated and Harry turned to his guests. “Shall we?” he asked gesturing towards the door. The other men stood and headed towards the kitchen. “Ah, no,” Harry called after them, flushing. “I thought we could eat in here.” Moving to one of the other doors, he opened it and showed them the now-refurbished dining room.

“Fancy,” commented Kingsley with a smile. Harry ignored Snape’s muttered comment of ‘the kitchen no longer good enough for you, Potter?’ with the ease of long practice. If the Dursleys had managed to teach him anything worth having, it was that being polite to visitors was important, though he refused to _ever_ go to the smarmy extents _they_ had when hosting ‘important’ clients. Settling at the table, they made some awkward small talk before Tom appeared carrying the plates.

“Impressive,” Snape remarked, in a voice that was far too smooth for any of their comforts as Tom handed the plates out elegantly, without a word. “Who would have thought that a _dark lord_ would ever be able to make a living as a common server?” Harry watched as the words hit home and Tom almost knocked over one of the glasses as his hand jerked. Retreating to the doorway, he hovered as Harry had previously instructed, in case any of them needed something. Which, it turned out, Snape seemed to regularly. Everything from wanting his glass refilled, to ‘accidentally’ dropping his fork and telling Tom to pick it up.

Harry’s hands grew tighter around his own cutlery as he caught the avaricious gleam in the Potions Master’s eyes when Tom had needed to stoop down in a pseudo bow to reach the fallen item. It’s his closure, Harry kept reminding himself. They would never have to be in contact with each other again – Merlin knows Harry wouldn’t want to repeat this painful experience. He tried to keep himself distracted with talking to Kingsley about the Aurors, his new endeavours in the Ministry, even reminiscing about the war in a desperate attempt to ignore what was happening on the other side of the table.

The rest of the meal didn’t improve things. In fact, they just deteriorated with every course. Snape made snide comments whenever Tom was in earshot, drinking in his reactions greedily every time his hands clenched, his eyes flashed or his jaw twitched. Tom, of course, was unable to respond in kind, Harry’s order for him to treat them as guests making sure of that.

With every sarcastic comment of how good Tom was at serving, how well he looked waiting on the side-lines for orders, how beautifully he took commands, Harry grew more and more uncomfortable. The unease he had developed when his visitors had first arrived had grown into full-blown discomfort. Sure, maybe he enjoyed it when Tom was humiliated, but only when _he_ did it. Tom was _his_ slave, their fates were interwoven and had been for longer than Harry could remember. They had intimately affected each other without even knowing it. Heck, Harry had been his _horcrux_! When Snape did it…it felt cheap.

And as time wore on, this situation started to feel less and less like closure, if it ever had, and more like… _bullying_. In fact, Snape reminded him rather too much of someone Harry had hated as a child: Aunt Marge. Whenever she had visited, she had made it her job to make his life as miserable as possible when they were forced to spend time together, like at the dinner table. She had made the same kind of snide, insulting comments about him, about his parents, about how grateful he should be for the _generosity_ of his Aunt and Uncle for taking him in… And Harry had reacted in the same way as Tom – unable to respond, he had bottled it up until in Third year, it had all erupted as a burst of accidental magic. With the threat of severe punishment from the collar if he lost control, Tom didn’t even have that outlet.

By the time they were finishing up the pudding, Harry had had enough. He caught Kingsley’s eye and saw a similar troubled look in his gaze. Nodding with finality, Harry interrupted Snape’s last jeer by giving Tom an instruction.

“Tom, please go and wash these plates up in the kitchen,” he said, controlling his voice as much as he could. The man shot him an unreadable glance, but then gathered up the plates, his haste in doing so the only indication of his strong desire to be out of the situation. As soon as he was out of the room, Snape rounded on Harry.

“Why did you send him away?” His demand sounded awfully like a petulant child being denied a treat.

“Because I felt that it was more than time to do so,” Harry replied, meeting Snape’s eyes glare for glare. Merlin, being able to escape him for more than two years, except for at Order meetings near the end of the war, had allowed him to forget how much he hated the man on a personal level. Sure, he respected Snape’s contributions to the war, and he had even reluctantly acknowledged that the man was a lot more complicated than his eleven year old self had thought, but by Morgana, it wasn’t like he did himself any favours! Plenty of people had had a bad childhood and difficult teenage years without turning into an unmitigated bastard. Heck, _Harry’s_ life hadn’t exactly been a bed of roses, but that didn’t mean he took out his spite on every person who stood still for long enough.

“Typical Potter,” the man sneered. “Ruining everyone’s fun just because you’re not the centre of attention.” Harry’s lip curled in disgust.

“Do you even listen to yourself? The only one who’s been having fun this evening has been _you_. By taking your spite out on someone who can’t fight back. Just like you always did in Potions at school. What does that make _you_?” The man snarled at him, his hand reaching for his wand.

“Severus,” Kingsley interrupted, a firm note in his voice. “That’s enough; we’re going home.” There was a finality to his tone that made even Snape pause. He examined the dark-skinned man’s expression, then scowled.

“As you wish, _master_ ,” he spat and stomped out of the room.

“I’m sorry, Kingsley,” Harry said miserably. This wasn’t what he had thought would happen, but then maybe that was the problem – he hadn’t really thought, just made the offer. And given what he knew about the miserable bastard Snape was, and how much he could hold a grudge…how could he have imagined it would go any differently? Kingsley put his hand on Harry shoulder.

“I know you meant well, Harry,” he responded, but Harry could read in his eyes the same thoughts that were going through his own head. “But I think we’d better go.” Harry nodded, avoiding his eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry for…well, I bet he’s going to be an arsehole to you about it for a while. I didn’t…” he trailed off. Kingsley chuckled slightly.

“I wouldn’t worry, Harry. Sure, he’s not going to be happy with either of us for a bit, but he’ll settle down again. Just…if you need me, I recommend you send an owl about it unless it’s urgent – I’ll come through here. If I’m welcome, that is,” he said, questioningly. Harry gave him a weak smile.

“Of course you are, Kingsley. Come over whenever.” The Minister nodded slowly.

“Well, thanks for the meal – it was very tasty.” Harry smiled wryly.

“With all the practice Tom’s been having lately, he’s getting pretty good at it. But I’ll pass on the compliment.” Kingsley nodded, then glanced towards the door.

“I’d better go before he comes back here for another round,” he said with a hint of humour, then left the room swiftly. Hearing the door open and then close, Harry sighed. To say that the evening had gone sideways was an understatement.

Trudging into the kitchen, he saw Tom cleaning the dishes so hard Harry was worried they would have their patterns scratched off. Picking up a dish towel, Harry decided to start drying by hand, not wanting to rub the fact that he could use magic once more in Tom’s face.

They worked in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Harry sighed.

“Kingsley said he enjoyed the food at least,” he tried. Tom kept silent, his movements becoming even angrier if that was possible. “Look, I’m sorry,” Harry attempted. Red eyes flashed to his, glowing brightly in their owner’s heightened emotions.

“For what?” the tone was completely flat.

“For…Snape. I didn’t realise he would be like that, and I should have. He was an unmitigated bastard at school; I don’t know why I thought he’d be anything different outside school.” The man just turned back to his chore without saying a word. For some reason, Harry felt…hurt. “Tom, speak to me, would you?”

“And say what, _master_?” The word was spat out with just as much force as Snape had used just ten minutes earlier. Harry shrugged.

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed in frustration. “Tell me I was stupid. Tell me I was naïve to think that an evening with _Snape_ could do anything but go badly.” Tom paused in washing up and turned towards Harry, an unreadable look on his face.

“May I speak plainly, master?” he asked. Harry waved at him with a frustrated gesture.

“Sure, not like you can say anything worse to me than I already am to myself.”

“Then, do you know what it did to me to have that _traitor_ in the same house as me? To be forced to bow and kneel and scrape in front of a man I fundamentally _despise_?” Harry didn’t speak for a moment, so taken aback by the sheer controlled force the words had been said with. He had expected raging, snarling, attempts at violence. Not this…distilled anger. Then, speaking past the lump that had started to develop in his throat, he said the only thing that came to mind.

“Why does it seem like you hate Snape more than _me_ , the one who forced you into this position – who forced you to become a slave and keeps you in chains of bondage?” Tom looked at him searchingly for a moment.

“Because I do.” Harry frowned.

“I don’t understand,” he said, slightly plaintively. He wasn’t sure why the idea that he mightn’t be at the top of Tom’s most hated list made him feel slightly…rejected. He should be glad about it, surely? Tom sighed and ran a hand through his hair, not seeming to notices the soap suds it left behind.

“Tell me, Harry,” he said quietly, the same intensity still in his voice and his eyes. “Who do you feel most anger at for your parents’ deaths? Me…or Wormtail.” A surge of anger rose in Harry at the name of his parents’ betrayer, though it was tempered slightly by his knowledge of the man’s death.

“Wormtail,” he said finally after careful consideration.

“Why?”

“Because he was their friend,” snarled Harry suddenly, twisting the dishtowel between his hands. “Because he went knowingly to their enemy to betray their most precious secret.” Tom nodded slowly.

“So is it really that hard for you to understand why I hate _Severus_ , the man who _swore_ himself to me, benefited from my teaching, then turned around and went to my enemy. The man who returned to me, all unctuous loyalty, lying with words, body and mind to assure me of his continued belief in my cause, in _me_ , only to report back to my enemy every scrap of information he could thieve. And now, to make it worse, to have it _rubbed in my face_ that because of his betrayal, he is all but free for the short time he will wear the collar, while _I_ am sentenced to wear it for the rest of my _life_!” By the end, Tom was panting and he had pressed close to Harry, staring down angrily into his eyes. A moment of silence passed between them before Tom withdrew and continued washing up. Harry breathed properly for the first time since Tom had started approaching him.

He could make the point that Voldemort had been a mass-murderer whose aims of genocide were completely predicated on his desire to gain control, rather than any real belief in the ideals he spouted. He could say that any follower with an iota of brain would have left Voldemort when he started tossing _crucio_ s around like candy. He could even say that to Snape’s mind, Voldemort had betrayed him first, by killing the only woman he had ever loved. But he didn’t. Because he understood the sting of betrayal all too well.

He had first experienced betrayal with the Dursleys, who had promised him something only to take great glee in denying it to him once he had done whatever they had wanted him to do. He had been betrayed by teachers who had recognised that his under-fed appearance paired with his ragged clothes and the occasional bruise were signs of something wrong, had promised him they would tell others about it and then had brushed him off shortly afterwards. Ron had betrayed him in Fourth year, and in a way, that one had stung the most because of the levels of trust which had been so much greater for Ron than for the others. He had been betrayed by his mentor, by Dumbledore, who had portrayed himself as omniscient and benevolent, and who had turned out to be raising him as a pig for the slaughter. Yes, he knew the feeling of betrayal, the sick curl in the stomach of first disbelief, then rage, then bargaining, then grief, then acceptance, and then a dull ache which never truly healed and made trusting in others ever more difficult.

And so there was truly only one thing he could say.

“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, he knew it wasn’t _nearly_ enough to touch the pain he knew he’d aggravated by inviting Snape around. Once more, he was a mess of contradicting emotions: anger at himself for inflicting the evening on Tom, when it hadn’t even achieved what Harry had expected it to achieve; anger at Snape for being such a bastard; anger at _Tom_ for seemingly being the victim in this; guilt at what he had enabled Snape to do; suspicion that Tom was manipulating the situation to his own ends _again_ ; pain at the memory of the betrayals he had suffered; frustration that it was never _simple_ with this man…

“Again, sorry for what?” At least this time there was more life to his tone, even if it was resentful. Harry shrugged.

“I’m not sorry for you having a life sentence – frankly, I think you deserve worse than a life sentence with me, and it’s not exactly _pleasant_ for me either. I’m not sorry that Snape betrayed you, because I think you set yourself up ready to _be_ betrayed. I’m not even sorry that Snape’s getting away with minimal punishment, because he actually _tried_ to redeem himself. But I _am_ sorry for bringing up the feelings of betrayal for you again, and for not thinking things through and realising that Snape is the kind of bastard who would take great joy in kicking a man when he’s down.” Tom stopped cleaning once more and stared at him.

“Do you realise how hypocritical you sound?” Harry frowned.

“Huh?” he asked eloquently.

“Perhaps I do deserve this, because I was on the side that lost – I was the _leader_ of the side that lost. And _Severus_ changed sides, so he should be treated better than me. But if that’s the case, then don’t pretend there is anything _moral_ about this. If _Severus_ , who joined willingly, who _begged_ me to be allowed to join along with his classmates, for revenge on his father and all those who had hurt him on the light side, who _took joy_ in killing and showing off his skills in creating deadly potions, who only turned away from me because he unintentionally set into motion the events which led to the death of his obsession, not because of any moral qualms…if he does not deserve punishment, _why do I_?”

Once more Harry was lost for words and feeling uncomfortably off-balance. He screwed his eyes up in an effort to block out the situation around him enough to _think_. Was he being hypocritical? Was he really willing to forgive Snape for his actions as a loyal Death Eater, just because afterwards, he had turned his coat and seen the light? Lady Magic apparently didn’t forgive him – if She had, Snape wouldn’t have been enslaved.

But then was it actually up to _Harry_ to decide? And then Harry realised the impossible dilemma Tom had falsely put him in. Opening his eyes, he felt more settled than he had been all evening. Tom seemed to realise his shift in emotions because there was curiosity in his eyes for a moment.

“The situations aren’t comparable, Tom,” Harry said, his tone coming across as tired, but firm. “Whether I do or don’t forgive Snape for his actions, it doesn’t matter – he’s not my slave. I’m not responsible for him – Kingsley is. And if Kingsley decides he doesn’t want Snape to suffer, that’s his right as the master. Honestly, I hope I never have to see him again, let alone spend time with him. You, however, are my responsibility. And I _do_ feel that you deserve punishment. Your actions are not comparable with Snape’s – he made a whole load of mistakes and bad judgements, but eventually tried to make up for them, putting himself at huge risk, whatever the original instigation of his change of heart was. You haven’t even admitted you were _wrong_.

“You started a war because you felt like you were the most powerful wizard in the world, and everyone should bow down at your feet because of that. You instigated the murder of _hundreds_ of people for your own vanity. You made a bad decision to rip up your soul in the pursuit of a flawed immortality, which then created subsequent bad decisions because it made you unstable. You further compounded your mistakes, bad decisions, and outright malicious actions by repeating the soul-splitting until you were nothing more than a mad, spitting shadow of your former self. You think I haven’t noticed the difference between you and Voldemort?

“So yes, I’m sorry that I brought Snape into our home. I’m sorry that I allowed him to behave so badly before stepping in. But I’m not sorry because I don’t think you deserve it – I’m sorry because it made _me_ into an accessory to bullying. Had I been a different person, that kind of treatment might have been simply an everyday activity, don’t forget.” Harry continued to stare into Tom’s eyes, gaze as unwavering as his voice. “However, because I _did_ bring him in, and because I _am_ sorry for bringing up his betrayal, knowing intimately how horrible it feels, I am willing to agree to a _reasonable_ request of yours.”

There was silence for several long minutes. The fire in Tom’s eyes had largely died away, being replaced by a thoughtful look. Harry felt more settled within himself – he’d been struggling recently with his own concepts of right and wrong and how they applied to his present position as a master of a slave. Somehow, this event had helped him crystallise in his own mind how he felt about it all. The guilt he realised had been curdling in his stomach since Kingsley’s office more than a month ago was largely gone. Because it was true – Tom was very different from Voldemort, in that he was sane and much more reasonable, but Harry had no doubts that if he managed to succeed in the scheme Harry suspected he was trying, he would just start the war again. He hadn’t realised he was wrong. He hadn’t even taken the _first_ step onto the path to redemption.

And that was OK. Harry wasn’t going to be like Dumbledore – he wasn’t going to keep offering second chances and giving people the opportunity to betray him. He wasn’t going to push everything else aside in the pursuit of Tom’s redemption. He wasn’t going to live in anguish worrying that Tom would never be ‘good’. But that meant that they could never be anything other to each other than master and slave. They could never be colleagues or friends like Kingsley and Snape seemed to have managed. In a world where Tom Riddle had not even acknowledged the error of his own actions as Voldemort, there could only ever be peace when Tom knew that Harry was the master, and that he was the slave.

So there wasn’t any question of what Tom _deserved_. He was a slave because the actions he had taken to enslave others had caused Lady Magic to lay that punishment on him (and Harry highly doubted, no matter what Tom clearly thought, that he would find any way out of his punishment). As a slave, his sole purpose was to please his master. So it wasn’t really about what Tom deserved, it was about what _Harry_ wanted – for once. And Harry didn’t want a broken pet who kneeled at his feet because he feared the consequences if he didn’t. He would much rather have a companion who would push and challenge Harry when he needed it, but would also go along with what he said with no questions asked at times because he recognised Harry could be trusted with both of them.

But maybe that was asking too much. Maybe a less antagonistic relationship was all he could reasonably expect. A relationship where Tom obeyed him because he accepted his position, without having lost the spark that made him who he was. Harry hoped Tom didn’t force him down the route of having to break him because it was a choice between that and losing complete control. But now, having finally sorted out his head, Harry knew that if that was the choice Tom forced him into, he knew what his response would be.

“My wand.” Harry was roused from his thoughts.

“What?” he asked in confusion.

“I want my wand.” Harry narrowed his eyes at Tom.

“Asking for your wand in perpetuity is _not_ a reasonable request.” Tom narrowed his eyes back.

“What would you consider ‘reasonable’, then?” Harry considered it.

“Three hours.” Tom raised his eyebrows superciliously.

“Three hours, that’s barely enough time to cast a few spells. Twenty-four hours, at least!” Harry looked at him flatly.

“Tom, I don’t think you realise your position in this. This is not a negotiation. You either have your wand for three hours, or you don’t have it at all. What’s your choice?” Tom glared at him.

“I want it,” he said grudgingly. Harry nodded slightly. Heading over to the cabinet in which the wand was stored during the times Tom wasn’t allowed to use it. Taking out his blackthorn wand, he dispelled the ward keeping it secure. Pulling the pale wand out of its hiding place, he hesitated before handing it over, despite the increasing impatience showing on Tom’s face.

“I suppose you’d actually like to do more with this wand than just _hold_ it,” he commented. Tom frowned.

“Of course!” Harry raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“No ‘of course’ about it. You asked for your wand, not to be able to use magic.” He saw a flash of disbelief pass across his slave’s face, followed quickly by apprehension mingled with fury and a touch of respect. Harry handed the wand over.

“Fortunately for you, I’m generally inclined to uphold the _spirit_ of the law rather than its letter,” he remarked. “You are allowed to use magic for the next three hours. You may not use it to damage anyone. If you damage anything, you are expected to repair it flawlessly before the end of your time, unless it is something you know is unwanted. You may not enter my room. Any questions?” Tom immediately shook his head.

“No,” he responded, clearly impatient to start.

“Then your time starts now. But Tom,” he said, catching the man before he had left the room.

“What?” demanded the man rudely. Harry looked at him levelly.

“The grace period is over. I’m your master and I expect you to behave in recognition of that.” Tom held his gaze for a few moments before dropping it to the ground.

“Yes, master,” he acknowledged, an unreadable note in his voice. “May I go, master?” he then asked, flicking his eyes back up. Harry nodded.

“You may. I expect you in the sitting room in three hours. Do not go over your time,” he warned. If the man did, he would have to be punished, but Harry hoped he didn’t.

XXX

Tom almost ran out of the kitchen, so excited he couldn’t breathe properly. Finally! His restrictions had been lifted enough to at least make some progress in his escape. Just a few days ago, he had found a spell which would map the arithmantic calculations that went into an enchantment. It was difficult magic, and three hours really wasn’t much time for even him to master a spell that complicated, but Tom didn’t have a choice. Who knew when the next opportunity would be for him to learn and cast it without revealing what he was doing to his master?

With the arithmantic diagram, he should be able to identify the weak points of the enchantment…eventually. No doubt it would be a highly complex diagram, and he would have to study and understand every section of it before he could even hope to find his solution. On the other hand, once he had understood it completely, he would be able to make his own versions. And, thinking darkly of the _traitor_ , he knew exactly who he would use his new knowledge on first.

His manipulations had finally worked…kind of. He would almost thank _Severus_ for it if he hadn’t utterly despised the stain on the universe that the man was – the Potions Master’s execrable behaviour had proved to be just what he needed to get a hold on Harry. Not that it had all been a lie, of course. The best manipulations, in Tom’s experience, were those which were thoroughly based in truth.

Seeing the traitor had immediately set his blood to boiling; when he had realised that the man wore a collar but yet was being treated normally while Tom himself had to continue with his servile behaviour had been… _irritating_. Irritating in as much as Vesuvius’ fury had been a _little_ inconvenient for the people of Pompeii. As for when _Severus_ had started taunting him, constantly rubbing his face in the fact that _he_ was being treated like a guest, while _Tom_ was a slave who could do _nothing_ to prevent it…. Suffice it to say that Tom’s anger in the kitchen had not been at all faked or exaggerated.

Tom would have felt more grateful to Harry for giving him an exit strategy, if he hadn’t been fully aware that the only reason he had to put up with the annoyance in the first place was because of him. Nevertheless, when Harry had come into the kitchen, guilt rolling off him in waves, he had seen an opportunity. Using carefully crafted words powered by real feelings, he had managed to finagle a boon out of his master.

But there was something telling him that he hadn’t come out completely the victor in this. Instead of being able to send his master completely off-balance, not knowing which way was up and perhaps feeling more sympathetic to Tom as a result of his guilt, it had…backfired slightly. The way Harry had been at the end…. Calm. Decided. Unyielding. Tom had a nagging feeling that he might have accidentally bitten off more than he could chew…

He pushed the feeling to one side – this was an achievement, and he didn’t have much time to do it in, given the three hour time limit. He would worry about his master later, if he had to.

XXX

Just under three hours later, Tom was getting desperate. He had managed to make the spell work on some simpler enchantments, testing whether the arithmantic diagram matched his understanding of the magic he had cast on an object. It had worked, but so far, every time he cast it on the collar, it had failed.

His wand buzzed, the timer he had set to remind him when to go downstairs going off. No! He was so close! He could feel it. He tried to cast the spell again, but fruitlessly. Snarling in frustration, a dull pain starting to vibrate through him, the collar’s reminder that he was beginning to disobey his master’s orders, he tried once more. This time, to his almost disbelieving eyes, a diagram started to spiral on the parchment to which he set his wand tip. Could it be…? Had the problem been that the collar hadn’t been _active_? Was the enchantment only readable when it was actively doling out pain or pleasure?

Hungry for information, he shoved the pain he was feeling to one side. He would endure this until the spell had finished, and then go down. His master would have to deal with it. Tom’s worst fear was that the boy might come upstairs to find him, but there was no helping that. At least, he’d probably have some sort of warning if that happened.

The minutes dragged on like hours, the pain in Tom growing and growing every second that he resisted his master’s command. The diagram which was spreading its self over the parchment in loops of calculations was one of the most complex he’d ever encountered and would probably take _months_ to decode. Not surprising, really, considering how it was semi-sentient, reacting to both master and slave, learning and storing information from one order to another, deciding how important an order was, even able to distinguish whether the infraction was intentional or not and modulate its response. Still, by the end of the fifteen minutes it took to set the ink down, Tom was gritting his teeth and half-closing his eyes in agony.

And then, once the actual spell had finished, Tom needed to cast the magic which would bind the ink to the page so it wouldn’t smear, and then cast a few complex charms to allow him to zoom in on a section of text without using his wand – otherwise, given how densely the page was populated, it would be impossible to distinguish one calculation from another. Fortunately NEWT level Arithmancy had taught him various charms to help with that.

Then he was done. He slipped the parchment into a dusty book on the bookshelf, somewhere Harry wouldn’t see it at first sight, and bolted out of the room. Almost running down the stairs, he slowed as he entered the sitting room. The pain in his collar vanished and a wave of pleasure overtook his senses. He gritted his teeth through that as much as he had through the pain. His master was writing at his desk and didn’t look up.

“I’m here, master,” Tom said, a note of insolence in his voice, despite his best efforts to sound apologetic. After his success with the spell, he was riding a high which was hard to think clearly through.

“I’m aware,” Harry responded coolly. “Put your wand on my desk and then kneel. I’ll deal with you when I’m ready.” Feeling uncomfortably like a scolded schoolboy, Tom shuffled towards the desk, laid his wand down carefully, though not without regret, and then backed away and knelt.

It was late, he realised, looking at the clock over the fireplace. Almost one am, in fact. Well, he supposed that their _guests_ had left around half past nine, and then it had been more than three hours… He realised that in the end he had arrived almost twenty-five minutes late. Tom was slightly impressed with his own endurance. Maybe he was getting used to the pain? Or maybe it had been the adrenaline pushing it to one side.

His master was taking a long time to finish whatever he was doing. Tom fidgeted. He was tired, but knew that he wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night. In fact, he was itching to get back to the diagram, start figuring it out. Harry would be at home tomorrow, but the day after, he would be at Hogwarts, so Tom had a good opportunity to work on it then. His thoughts were interrupted by his master’s voice _finally_ addressing him.

“I don’t know why I’m disappointed,” Harry remarked, and for some reason, Tom felt his heart jerk at the tone. It wasn’t angry – that would have been better. It was just tired and…disappointed. “But I am. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he invited. Tom shook his head. It wasn’t as if he could tell the _truth_ after all. Lying would just make things worse as it would be pretty obvious what he was doing when the collar activated.

“I got caught up in something, master,” he said finally, the only thing he could say which was both truth and uninformative. He hoped beyond hope that Harry wouldn’t ask him _what_ he was doing in specific, though prepared a couple of answers that might work, just in case.

“Didn’t you set an alarm?” Harry asked. Tom winced.

“Yes, master.” The boy’s expression shuttered.

“Then you deliberately disobeyed me,” he said with finality. Tom didn’t answer: it wasn’t a question. Harry sighed. “You leave me no choice,” he said heavily. “You are banned from your wand and all types of magic for the next week.” Tom grimaced, but eventually nodded. That seemed…surprisingly fair. He’d known he was courting punishment the longer he had stayed in the library. Besides, while it wouldn’t be pleasant to be cut off once more from his magic, he didn’t actually _need_ his wand for anything until he had figured out the collar. “And I will be using _punire_ on you, one second for every minute you were late.” Tom’s heart dropped at the second punishment. Twenty-five seconds…that was a hell of a long time to be under the collar’s punishment.

“Master, please,” he started. “It’s – it’s too long!” Harry’s gaze was flinty.

“You should have thought about that before deciding to deliberately disobey me.” If his tone had been angry, Tom would have been able to take it better. As it was, its stern implacableness removed all possibility for Tom to escape or ameliorate the punishment.

“What if I go insane?” he asked, his voice higher-pitched than normal. The possibility _terrified_ him, especially this close to escape. Harry’s gaze softened slightly and for a moment, Tom hoped he’d succeeded in getting him to rethink. His next words removed that hope completely.

“I’ll do it in two bursts. The first for fifteen seconds, the second for ten.” Tom searched his master’s gaze desperately for some sign, any sign that this was a joke, or that guilt would overtake him and stop this punishment in its tracks. But no. Nothing. So, instead, he pulled himself up, took a deep breath in preparation and unconsciously tensed. There was a beat of silence, then another. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself, Tom thought. Then it came.

“ _Punire_ ,” he heard before the pain took over. It felt like an eternity before it stopped. Surely, surely that had been the whole of the punishment, not just over half of it? He had wished he could _die_ during it – surely it was over now? But apparently not. After a few desperate pants for breath, his master repeated the dreaded word and he was submerged in agony once more.

When he came back to full consciousness after drifting in the timeless anguish that was the collar’s punishment, he realised his master was crouching beside him. He flinched slightly, tiredly, when a hand touched his head, stroking through his locks. In his prostrate position, it was easy for his master to first stroke the back of his head, and then move to stroking over his shoulders and back. He felt he should have protested at the action – he wasn’t a _dog_ – but frankly, after all of that, he didn’t really feel human either. And it felt nice. Tom was also starting to subconsciously react to the gentle soothing as being the end of the punishment, allowing him to relax. 

After a few more moments of that, by which point his pain and exhaustion befuddled mind had decided to start slipping towards sleep, his master stood up. Tom lifted his head, staring up blearily, a part of him wondering why the nice feelings had disappeared, and how he could get them back. The rest of him very quickly jumped on that thought and shoved it away, by which point, he was much more cognisant of what was going on. Harry looked down at him, his lips set in something that looked like disapproval, but his eyes revealing something different. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

“Go to bed, Tom,” Harry said tiredly. Tom nodded and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. It took a few tries, and he knew he’d need to use the wall to help him upstairs, but eventually he managed to stand with the support of one of the chairs. Making his slow and painful way out of the room, he paused in the doorway and looked back. Harry was back at his desk, bent over his parchment once more, writing who knows what. Nodding again, though Tom wasn’t sure why, he started the long, slow climb up the stairs. He had hoped to spend time on the diagram, but with the punishment, plus the order to go to bed, it would be better to get his rest now. He would have time enough on Monday.

XXX

Tom sighed heavily as he dusted one of the many pieces of furniture littering this blasted house. The words from a few days ago still echoed in his head. Not _Severus’_ , of course – that traitor wasn’t worth wasting a thought on. No, it was Harry’s words that went round and round in his head, distracting him from studying the collar’s diagram. ‘ _You think I haven’t noticed the difference between you and Voldemort?_ ’

Had he really changed that much? He didn’t think so. To Tom, Lord Voldemort had been retired, simply because his skill set wasn’t useful in the present circumstances. But…well, was that actually proving the truth of Harry’s words, if Voldemort was so easily put aside? He had already acknowledged to himself that the horcruxes had been…not the best of ideas. So much time and effort had been wasted when he could have achieved his goal much earlier and more efficiently, if he’d maintained his sanity.

So _how_ was he different from Lord Voldemort? Apart from the obvious, of course. As much as the body of Lord Voldemort had been useful for intimidating both enemies and allies alike, he had…missed his good looks. It took more effort to use charm than intimidation, but after having used both methods, he had to conclude that charm seemed to have fewer negative consequences. Tom found himself wondering whether he could use charm with a certain green-eyed master, but quickly diverted his thoughts away from the dangerous topic. Who knew how the collar would react to him plotting how to use his good looks to sway his master’s thoughts?

But apart from his looks, what was different? Well, he didn’t have all the violent urges, thank Merlin. It was a lot easier to control his temper, which Tom was exceedingly glad for given what awaited him if he snapped at his master. He was less reactive in general, he supposed. The Tom Riddle he used to be had never moved without thinking it through at least twice, except for when Dumbledore had visited at the orphanage, of course, and he’d regretted that for years. Lord Voldemort, conversely, had usually cursed first and asked questions after. The person he was now seemed to be closer to the Tom Riddle he used to be than the Lord Voldemort he had become.

What else? He was thinking more clearly than he had in years. He hadn’t realised how much his ability to _think_ had deteriorated ever since he made his first horcrux. In fact, it had deteriorated _significantly_ when he had made his first horcrux; each one after that seemed to have had diminishing effects on his sanity and ability to plan and think things through. And with that increased capacity to think, another comment of Harry’s kept echoing with the others. ‘ _You haven’t even admitted you were_ wrong.’ Was he wrong?

About the horcruxes…yes. He could admit that they had been an…error of judgement. Fresh off the Second World War, he had been brought face to face with his mortality in a way that had made him…panic. With hindsight, he could realise that. He may not have been present for the Blitz, fortunately, but bombs hadn’t only dropped then – that was just the worst period. So he had grabbed the first method that had offered him some security with both hands, not taking note of the possible side effects. And then, as Harry had so perceptively realised, ‘ _You made a bad decision to rip up your soul in the pursuit of a flawed immortality, which then created subsequent bad decisions because it made you unstable. You further compounded your mistakes, bad decisions, and outright malicious actions by repeating the soul-splitting until you were nothing more than a mad, spitting shadow of your former self.’_ Each time he had split his soul, it had got worse. By the end, he had been so focused on destroying the only threat to his immortality that he had almost destroyed the Wizarding world. That had never been his intention.

Harry might have said, ‘ _You started a war because you felt like you were the most powerful wizard in the world, and everyone should bow down at your feet because of that. You instigated the murder of hundreds of people for your own vanity.’_ But it hadn’t started like that. Or not exactly like that. He hadn’t wanted to destroy the Wizarding world. He hadn’t wanted to kill all those people, at least not at first. He had been ambitious, wanting to rise to a high position in the Ministry. He had wanted to be Minister for Magic, even. He had wanted to prove to everyone who had muttered about mudblood orphans, slimy Slytherins, evil children, that he was _better_ than them. More powerful, more intelligent; simply outclassing them in all ways. He had never met someone he truly respected. The adults at the orphanage had been blind and then easily fooled or intimidated. Dumbledore had been powerful, but _weak_. The other adults at Hogwarts had been as bad as those at the orphanage… And then he had split his soul, and the desire to prove himself the most intelligent, the most powerful had remained, but the patience and cunning to do so legally had vanished.

So, in the end, as Harry had said, he started a war for his own vanity, couched in terms of pureblood supremacy which he had never truly believed – how could he when he knew from an early age that he was a half-blood and yet was so much _better_ than all the purebloods he had surrounded himself with? But it had been a useful platform, and it had attracted those with the money and the power to back him. Originally, of course, those plans had been for them to back him to become Minister, but over time…well, they had changed.

Perhaps…perhaps it would be better if Lord Voldemort _didn’t_ rise again, even once he had got this collar off his neck, and had been able to disappear. Perhaps someone else should take his place – someone who had the caution and the ambition of Tom Riddle, but the power and the experience of Lord Voldemort. Someone different.

‘ _You haven’t even admitted you were_ wrong.’ Was he wrong? The question echoed again in his head, as it had done ever since his conversation with Harry. He still didn’t have an answer.

XXX

Harry couldn’t stop grinning. There were several things that were great about today. First, it was Friday, which was always a cause for celebration. Second, he had finished his work for Hogwarts, so he could relax that weekend. Third, he had a quidditch game booked for Sunday – Ron had told him about it and they had both got tickets. And fourth, he had done _really_ well in his first set of official Auror training assessments. All that extra duelling practice with Tom had definitely paid off when it came to the practicals, and all the effort he’d put into learning the more boring stuff had certainly not been wasted.

It was a big thing for Harry. Academia had never been his thing. The Dursleys had done their active best to keep him as ignorant as possible about everything, and he had quickly learned that bringing home marks which put Dudley’s own grades in a poor light was an almost as likely to earn a punishment as accidental magic. So, he had learned not to really bother at school. What was the point, really? Not to mention, of course, that their constant belittlement of his intelligence _had_ stuck to some extent, without him even realising, adding another dimension – what was the point in trying if he was too stupid to learn? And then he’d got to Hogwarts and the habits had stayed. Not to forget, of course, that Ron had been his first friend to whom he had clung with the clutch of a drowning man at a straw. Harry reckoned, looking back, that he had subconsciously picked up on Ron’s insecurity and so, to keep the peace and his friend, he had tried to copy what Ron did, including his lack of regard for school work. Really, Hermione’s chivvying had been the only thing that had got either of them through the OWLs, he thought ruefully.

Practical was different, of course. Not even Ron’s poor performance in classes had been enough to make Harry stop trying to cast spells. After all, it was _magic_. It had showed – Harry’s spell-casting had always been significantly better than his theory, still was. Not to forget, of course, that he had been able to learn complex spells long before the normal age, when his lack of knowledge about how advanced they really were meant that he wasn’t immediately hampered by his ground-in expectations of failure.

Then the war had happened and Harry had been forced to learn all sorts of magic which in normal conditions he wouldn’t have even attempted. Slowly, the Dursleys’ conditioning had been undone. Add that to the fact that Ron had _finally_ gained some self-confidence as he emerged from his brothers’ shadow, allowing Harry to feel more comfortable trying his best, and he suddenly started realising how much he could really do.

Having to catch up with the missed lessons at the same time as doing his work for his NEWTs had been a real test of his abilities, but he had succeeded, and now had the proof. Outstandings across all of the Auror assessments, both practical and theory. Of course, he would still have two more assessments in March and June before the Auror Trainee intake assessments in August, but he was still very happy with his result.

Getting home, he decided to share the joy. Entering the kitchen, he found Tom hard at work preparing their dinner. Leaning on the door-frame, he allowed himself to enjoy watching his slave for a moment. If he permitted himself to do so, he would be able to watch those graceful movements for hours.

“Tom,” he said eventually to announce his presence, casting a wordless stasis charm on the food. The man jumped slightly, but turned around and bowed his head for a moment before meeting Harry’s gaze.

“Master,” he greeted neutrally. Harry smiled at him. His smile widened when its appearance caused a flash of confusion in Tom’s eyes. How he loved confusing the man…

“You’ve been pretty good, recently,” Harry told him. “Since that incident almost a week ago, you haven’t been defiant or even tested your boundaries, particularly. And frankly, despite the incidents you _have_ had, you’ve been taking this whole situation a lot better than I would have expected.” Tom looked wary as if he was apprehensive that such outpouring of positivity would be followed with an equal amount of negativity. “So, I figure you deserve a reward. I’ll buy you a book from Flourish and Blotts, if you’d like,” he offered. Knowing how much Tom enjoyed reading, he figured that was a pretty safe bet – it would have been with Hermione. He saw interest flash in Tom’s eyes and inwardly smirked. Gotcha.

“I wouldn’t mind it,” his slave said cautiously, as if suspecting that, having expressed interest, the offer would be withdrawn. Harry suddenly felt an unexpected pang of sympathy – unfortunately, he too knew that feeling intimately. Refreshing his smile, he pretended he hadn’t noticed.

“Great. We’ll go tomorrow morning, then.”

“We, master?” Tom repeated, apprehensively. Harry nodded happily.

“Of course. How do you expect to choose your book if you’re not there?”

“Owl order, perhaps?” muttered Tom, though Harry could tell it was half-hearted. If Hermione’s comments were anything to judge by, owl order was only helpful if you had a specific book you wanted, not for simple browsing. Harry just grinned at him knowingly, Tom’s frown increasing in proportion to Harry’s smile. Finally Harry just straightened up.

“That’s settled, then. I’ll let you cook dinner,” he said generously, enjoying the spark of irritation that caused a little too much. Waving his wand, he cancelled the stasis charm, drawing a curse from the man as Tom scrambled hastily back to the stove to stir the food in the frying pan which was threatening to catch. Smiling to himself, Harry left the room whistling.

XXX

The next day, Harry was still in a good mood. Waking up relatively early, he decided to make pancakes for breakfast. It was something he’d often made for the Dursleys, but had rarely been able to eat any, no matter how good he had been. Feeling generous, he made enough batter for two, figuring that if Tom didn’t want them, he could always keep it until another day.

“Pancakes?” he offered when the red-eyed man walked into the kitchen a few minutes later. Tom looked a bit taken aback.

“Pardon, master?” he asked, cautiously.

“Would you like pancakes for breakfast? There’s jam or sugar to put on them, or if you want a savoury option, you could grate some cheddar on them.” Tom seemed surprisingly off-balance. Well, Harry supposed that it was the first time he’d offered the man breakfast in almost three months – since the beginning, they’d sorted out their own breakfasts and lunches, and for most of the time, Tom had been doing the dinners. Harry shrugged inwardly. He could be nice sometimes, surely.

“That…would be nice, master,” Tom said finally, neutrally. Harry nodded and turned back to the stove, expertly frying the whole lot of batter and turning out perfect pancakes every time. While they ate, Harry felt like making conversation, but knew that it would probably lead to an argument unless he asked a question about his studies, and he didn’t really feel like doing that today. No, he decided, today was time to relax, to recover from his recent epic bender of studying. He’d do some work the next day. So, instead of speaking, he thought about the quidditch game he was going to see. It was the Falmouth Falcons against the Holyhead Harpies. Harry was pretty sure Ron had decided to get tickets because George was going, and George was going because of Angelina. But it was probably going to be a decent game regardless of the motivations for attendance.

Finishing his breakfast, Harry levitated his plate in the sink and set it to cleaning and drying itself, sending the same spells at the pan and mixing bowl.

“Finished?” he asked Tom, raising his eyebrows. The man nodded, so Harry dealt with his plate and cutlery in the same way. “OK. Ready to go?”

“I suppose,” came the reply. Harry felt like rolling his eyes: Slytherins. Would it kill them to show a little enthusiasm? Then he sobered – in Tom’s position, he probably wouldn’t show enthusiasm either. With the Dursleys, he had done his best to be as emotionless as possible: that way there was less they could use against him. No doubt Tom felt the same way, even if Harry felt slightly insulted at being treated the same way as the Dursleys. Ending up by shrugging, he led the way out of the kitchen and to the doorstep. Pausing just inside the door, he partially turned towards Tom.

“I don’t suppose restraints are needed today either?” he half-asked, half-warned.

“No, master,” was the quick reply. Alrighty then. Stepping out onto the doorstep, he reached out to grip Tom’s arm before apparating them to Diagon Alley. Being Saturday, and not particularly early in the day, the alley was rather crowded. More so, in fact, than the previous time they had visited, but then it had been much later. Picking his way through the crowd, Harry started to become aware of whispers wherever they went and a few none too pleasant looks thrown at Tom. For once, Harry was actually grateful for the public behaviour rules where the slave was expected to keep close to his master – if they got separated in this crowd, with Tom unable to use magic, he would actually be at risk.

With that in mind, Harry kept his senses sharp and made a beeline towards the bookshop. He did take a moment, however, to shoot a glance back at Tom. The man seemed outwardly unaffected by the stares and whispers, but Harry could see how much tenser he was than normal.

“Stay close,” Harry ordered quietly.

“Yes, master,” Tom replied, just as quietly, his voice betraying his relief for the order by its very neutrality.

Inside the shop, Harry told Tom to have a look around and choose the book he’d like to read, but not to leave the building. He also made sure that Tom understood if there was any sort of trouble, he was to come to Harry _immediately_. Harry really didn’t want any trouble, not today of all days. No, he wanted a calm, pleasant, uneventful outing, if it was at all possible.

While Tom browed, Harry did so too, picking up a few books which he felt could help him with his studies – a couple of Magical Theory books, a detailed book on the basics of potioneering, and a compendium of legal curses, hexes and jinxes. He was sure he’d know a good few already, but having flicked through the pages, there were definitely some which he both didn’t know and which could be useful. Eventually, Tom approached him with a thick tome – something to do with Arithmancy. Harry didn’t bother looking into it – never having taken the subject, he knew enough from watching Hermione work that he wouldn’t have a hope in Hades of understanding what the book was about. At least, given that it was being sold in this shop, he knew it had to be _legal_.

Approaching the till, Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief as they left the shop without any trouble. Starting to walk towards the apparition point, Harry was grabbed by the arm. Turning on his attacker with war-honed reflexes, his wand was out and a stunning spell was on his lips before he was able to see who had stopped him.

“Neville,” he said, pleasure in his voice as he lowered his wand. They might be doing Auror classes together, but the nature of the classes didn’t leave much time for socialising, and by the end they were always exhausted and just wanting to get home. As for days at Hogwarts, each student chose when to go to the tutorials, so there was no guarantee of crossover with others. Harry felt like he hadn’t caught up with Neville in ages.

“Harry,” the man greeted in return, eyeing him. “Were you going to attack me?” Harry shrugged apologetically.

“Never intentionally, I promise. It’s just…my senses are rather highly strung at the moment,” he finished ruefully, indicating the people around him giving him physical space, but staring at him with either awe, fear or a mixture of the two and muttering to their neighbours. Neville cast a glance around, his gaze seeming to reproach the watchers.

“I understand,” he said simply. Then his attention was caught by Tom, and it immediately narrowed in dislike. “I hadn’t realised you’d…gone to the auction,” he said, a note of distaste in his voice.

“I didn’t,” Harry defended himself. His friend lifted an eyebrow in question.

“Then how did you end up with…a _slave_?” Harry shrugged.

“It wasn’t my choice, I promise you. I’d tell you in a slightly more private area, but not in front of everyone here.” Neville nodded.

“Well, why don’t we –“ he cut himself off, staring beyond Harry. “Ah, there she is. Luna!” he called. Harry turned, his gaze being immediately caught by the woman’s blonde locks glinting in the sun as she wandered towards them.

“Hello,” she said, as dreamily as always. Harry found himself smiling.

“Hello, Luna. How are you?” he asked, genuinely wanting to know the answer. The last time he had seen her had been just before the final battle.

“I’m very well, thank you, Harry. I decided to take daddy on a Snorkack hunting trip – after everything that happened, I thought he could use cheering up.” Cheering up? More like a therapist, was Harry’s personal opinion, after seeing what the man had become without Luna there to keep him somewhat sane. Still, he was Luna’s father…

“Did you find any?”

“No, not yet. But we’re pretty sure we found some tracks, so we’re going to go back in a few weeks. Snorkacks are rather more active in the winter, we think, so that would be a good time to search.”

“I see,” replied Harry. He often found himself lost for words with Luna, though it never seemed to be a problem for her. Case in point, she looked past his shoulder.

“I see lots of wrackspurts around your companion. Are you alright, Mr Red-eyes?” she asked Tom directly. The slave didn’t seem to know what to do, shooting a look at Harry as if to ask for permission to speak, or perhaps guidance. Harry sighed.

“You may speak,” he said shortly, his gaze warning Tom to be nice.

“Thank you master. Yes, I’m alright,” he answered Luna who studied him seriously, her usual dreamy expression nowhere to be seen.

“No you’re not,” she contradicted him gently. “But you will be.” Then, her dreamy smile reappearing, she patted him on the cheek and then went to hang off Neville’s arm. The latter looked at Harry suspiciously.

“Red eyes?” he asked pointedly.

“Not here,” Harry reminded him.

“How about there, then?” Neville suggested, pointing at Florean Fortescue’s ice-cream parlour. “We can put a privacy ward up.” Harry shrugged in agreement. It was still a bit more public than he would have liked, but with some judicious spell-work, they could make it pretty private.

XXX

Tom was forced to follow his master as they headed towards the ice-cream parlour, dread curdling in his stomach. Once his master sat down, he knew what he was going to have to do. And given that the other boy seemed to have some idea of _who_ he was…the humiliation would be complete. If there was one thing he was grateful for, it was that he had completely disassociated Tom Riddle from Lord Voldemort. It helped, of course that he had looked completely different in the two guises along with the fact that his birth name had been a well-kept secret. Even before his downfall in the 1980’s, his use of the dark arts, especially to create horcruxes, had twisted his features enough to make him unrecognisable. Then, of course, his most recent incarnation had been significantly affected by using Nagini’s venom in the creation of the homunculus. Take the snake-like looks away, and his only real identifying feature were his eyes. He never thought he’d be grateful for anonymity, but then he’d never imagined in his wildest dreams that he might end up in this situation.

Once at the counter, they chose their ice-creams. Harry offered Tom one, but he refused politely. He didn’t have much of a sweet-tooth at the best of times, and this certainly wasn’t the best of times. Finding an open table, the two males cast some charms to ensure their privacy. Tom recognised the notice-me-not, which would only hold as long as they didn’t draw attention, but otherwise worked quite well. The second spell was familiar as well – one of _Severus’_ creations. The final spell was not as familiar to Tom, but he could work out what it probably did, based on the incantation and context. It probably obscured their lips in some way, or made them seem as if they were speaking about some innocuous topic or other. No doubt Harry was worried that if he had a conversation without the spells, it would be splashed across the Prophet the next morning.

Then the moment arrived. His master sat down at the table with his friends and Tom…Tom needed to kneel at his side. In public. He knew he had to: Harry might not enforce it, especially with his friends there – if their perspectives on slavery were anything like the mudblood’s – but if the notice-me-not failed for any reason (and they were finicky spells at the best of times) and someone saw him sitting at the side of the Saviour with a collar around his neck, acting like they were equals… Well, the literature he had read had been pretty clear on the consequences. Upon a complaint being made, the Ministry would get involved and, while they couldn’t actually take him away as far as Tom knew, they could certainly enforce a severe punishment for his ‘poor’ behaviour in public. Harry had managed to explain it away last time, but who knew if he’d even _try_ in this situation.

So, he had to follow their expectations while outside the house. He knew that. But actually putting it into practice? He saw his master looking at him questioningly as he hovered with his fists clenched and his jaw set. With a massive effort to push away his feelings of humiliation and frustration, he slowly sank to his knees. Glaring a hole in the floor, he didn’t dare look up for fear his eyes were revealing too much of his feeling of vulnerability.

“Tom…” his master said, trailing off before completing his thought. Tom wasn’t sure what he had wanted to say even – there were too many emotions expressed in that simple word for him to decode the real reason it was said. Wonder, surprise, a hint of embarrassment, hesitancy, discomfort… All Tom could get from it was that Harry hadn’t expected him to kneel. Though why that was, he didn’t know, he thought scathingly. They had read the same book, hadn’t they? Yes, admittedly, Tom had probably done more research than Harry but the _guidebook_ was pretty clear.

“Harry?” The other boy spoke. Neville, or something. Perhaps _this_ was the infamous Neville Longbottom, leader of the Hogwarts Resistance. Taking advantage of his master’s distracted attention, he peeked up at the boy through his fringe briefly before returning his eyes to the floor. He wasn’t really impressed by what he saw, but knew better than most how an unassuming appearance could sometimes hide remarkable skills. And if this _was_ the leader of that damned resistance group, his appearance was _very_ deceptive indeed. “You said you’d explain. Please don’t tell me that’s who I think it might be…” His voice was full of suspicion. Tom’s master sighed.

“It’s Voldemort, if that’s who you’re thinking of. Or at least, that’s who he used to be,” he said tiredly. There was a long silence. Chancing a look up, he saw the shocked and slightly angry look on the Longbottom boy’s face.

“You have _Voldemort_ as your slave?” he whisper-shouted. “Why in Merlin’s…? What…? _How_ did that happen?” Harry sighed again.

“Seems like our fates are woven together in ways that even Lady Magic didn’t want to pull apart. The collar wouldn’t respond to anyone else, and after they investigated, they found it was because he already had a master – me. So, we’re bound together until death do us part.” Tom heard a hint of humour in the last part, a way of coming to terms with the idea, he thought. He’d probably be struggling with the idea too if he hadn’t been certain that his genius would find a way out.

“That’s…” The Longbottom boy didn’t seem to know what to say. “That _sucks_ ,” he said finally, angrily. “I mean, I don’t agree entirely with this whole thing – in fact, I was pretty shocked when Gran took it in stride. Apparently, her family used to own a slave before she was born, when it wasn’t being used as a punishment any longer, but existing slaves had to serve out their sentence regardless. But even so, I wasn’t exactly _upset_ about monsters like the Lestranges having to serve those they had wanted to rule over. But to actually _live_ with one of them, and _Voldemort_ at that…. No. I couldn’t imagine it. How are _you_ managing?” Tom saw his master shrug slightly out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. We’ve managed to find some level of understanding – most of the time we just avoid each other as much as possible.” Though that wasn’t _really_ true anymore, was it, Tom thought idly. They often spent time together in the evening, Tom reading on the floor near the fire, Harry at his desk. And the amount of time they’d spent time together duelling or Tom helping Harry with his studies… Well, it wasn’t really avoiding, was it? Sure, they didn’t spend much time in each other’s company during the week, but then Harry was out for the vast majority of their waking hours. “Besides,” Tom’s master continued, “he’s not really Voldemort anymore, not without his horcruxes, followers or ability to do magic at his own volition.” That was certainly true, Tom agreed bitterly. Though, in recent times, he had started to wonder whether he actually _wanted_ to be Lord Voldemort anymore.

“Leopards don’t change their spots that easily,” warned the Longbottom boy darkly. Tom looked up, only to quickly look down again as his eyes caught on the glare aimed at him by the boy in question. His heart raced – stupid! Technically, Longbottom could complain about him to the Ministry, since by making eye-contact, he had breached one of the rules of public behaviour. Tom could only hope that the boy would choose to take it up with his friend, rather than the ministry if he was angered by it.

“Yeah, but leopards don’t tend to split their souls into seven bits either, do they?” Harry replied wryly. “Look, Neville, I appreciate your concern, but we’re managing to work it out.” There was another long pause, but this time, Tom didn’t dare look up in case he was still being watched by the former resistance leader.

“OK, well, if you say so, Harry. I’ll back off. But if you start acting strangely, I’m going to force you to St Mungo’s to be checked out quicker than you can say ‘quidditch’.” It sounded like both a promise and a threat. A promise for Harry and a threat for Tom, that was. Tom just kept looking down, trying to pretend he wasn’t there. Suddenly he realised that he was actually more worried about _Longbottom_ than his own master.

Rocked by the revelation, and questioning why it was, Tom stopped tuning into the conversation, which had shifted to other topics anyway. Why was he more concerned about someone who didn’t have any power over him, than the person who had almost _complete_ power over him? Mulling over the thought, Tom came to a few possible conclusions. First, he didn’t know Longbottom’s character – was he vindictive or petty? Would he report Tom for those few moments of eye contact and thereby force a punishment? Did he have sway over Tom’s master – could he convince Harry to be stricter or more vengeful himself? He didn’t know what Longbottom could _do_ , and the uncertainty worried him.

Following on the heels of that thought was its corollary – that if he was concerned about Longbottom because he didn’t know what he would do, he was less worried about Harry because he _did_ know. That in turn was followed by the sudden awareness that in all the time he had been with Harry, the boy had rarely been petty, and never been cruel. He had provoked Tom and punished him for the provocation near the beginning, which Tom supposed could be considered cruelty, except for Tom recognising that he himself played a part in that – if he had not been so easy to provoke, he was certain Harry wouldn’t have pushed it too far. Besides, the last time it had happened, the provocation had been half-hearted and Tom had kept his cool, and that had been weeks ago as it was.

And as for the times Harry _had_ properly punished him…Tom couldn’t honestly look back at them and saw it was without reason. Sure, he chafed under the rule of the collar, but the rule of his master…it wasn’t so bad, he supposed. He still longed to be free, of course, but he supposed that if he _had_ to have a master, it could have been a lot worse.

Feeling lighter now he’d actually admitted something which had been in the back of his mind for a while, Tom felt a bit more able to pay attention to his surroundings. The notice-me-not charm should mean that unless he did something blatant, other patrons in the shop wouldn’t pay him any attention, voiding the risk of having his behaviour reported. A quick glance at his master and his friends showed they were deep in conversation, so he figured it was safe enough.

He cast his eyes around the room, watching the patrons of all ages chat and laugh over their monstrosities of ice-creams, but couldn’t help a sense of unease. What was causing his instincts to raise their hackles? Looking around again, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Then, looking around once more, this time observing closely everyone his eyes alighted upon, he realised with a frisson of shock, what it was that had caught his unconscious attention. There was a man sitting on the other side of the room, alone and with an empty ice-cream cup in front of him. That wasn’t what had caught Tom’s attention; instead, it was the fact that the man was _staring right at him_. And not just staring, but _glaring_. If looks could kill, Tom would have been dead several times over. How could the man see past the charm? He could feel it was still there.

Except, the charm didn’t work on those who were determined or paying particular attention – it only worked on those whose attention could be easily diverted. Which…didn’t mean anything good. Tom stiffened as the man drew out his wand and saw his lips start moving, the tip of the wand following through in a particular pattern. He was not a lip reader, and the pattern was being slightly obscured by the people in between, but what he could interpret was that whatever was going to come at them was one of several powerful curses. And suddenly, Tom realised, with a chill of horror that felt like a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped over his head, that the man wasn’t actually aiming at _Tom_ , but at Tom’s _master_!

It felt like time had frozen, no, had simply slowed down to glacial speed. The man was aiming a powerful curse at Tom’s master, who had _no idea_ that anything was happening. He would be completely unprepared. With a flash of images moving in front of Tom’s eyes, he could see what might easily happen – the curse would propel itself into Harry’s vulnerable side, digging through soft tissue and organs to his heart, possibly killing him instantly. But even if he didn’t die immediately, he might bleed out before help could arrive, depending on how good his two friends were at healing spells. Tom himself would be useless – unable to use magic without the permission which wouldn’t be able to be given. Even in the best case scenario, Harry would be severely injured.

It wouldn’t be possible to move Harry out of the way – already a spell was emerging from the man’s wand, a deep brown colour that Tom recognised as a powerful blasting curse. He had no time to do more than grab his master’s attention, make him able to face his coming doom instead of it catching him completely unaware. And then Tom realised there was something he could do. Propelling himself to his feet, time sped up once more.

“Master!” he called urgently, Harry’s eyes whipping towards him, his wand already in his hand. Tom saw the moment he recognised the danger as his eyes widened and his wand started flicking quickly in the familiar motions of a _protego_ spell. Too slow. The spell had barely begun forming when the curse hit.

Pain. Tearing, burning, breaking pain. Tom screamed as his back took the brunt of the curse, blasting apart his flesh and ripping at his bones. The partially-formed shield charm must have done something, though, or the caster had been particularly weak, as it hadn’t gone all the way through Tom. He felt suspended in the air for a moment, the force of the blast taking him off his feet, and then he crashed into his master.

Later, he would rationalise that he had been simply being logical. If his master died, Tom would die too – it made sense to protect his master. He would also say that since he would be the most useless person in a crisis, thanks to the restrictions on his magic and his status as a slave, it made sense that he was the one to be injured. That wasn’t, however, what he thought in the moment….

The last thing he actually thought was that this felt strangely…right. After all the curses he had cast at his master, to now be _taking_ a curse for him felt like maybe this was a way of making up for it.

XXX

Harry didn’t know what had just happened. One moment he was having a good conversation with his friends, the next Tom had leapt up and called for him in a tone filled with urgency. Of course, he had responded to the tone with his instincts fully engaged, his wand sliding into his hand with a small flick of his wrist, his eyes immediately scanning for the threat…and then he saw it. A brown bolt of magic speeding towards him – no, towards his slave who had _stood up in its path_. A _protego_ at his wand-tip in a moment, it was still not fast enough to prevent the spell from hitting, though he hoped it had helped to deflect at least _some_ of the force.

The next moment, he was falling backwards as Tom _slammed_ into him, his body a dead weight. Panicked at the thought, and the man’s closed eyes, he felt desperately for a pulse. One moment…then another as he frantically felt for a heartbeat. There!

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief as he felt the pulse beat. It was weak, which wasn’t a good sign, but at least he was still alive. Shifting and wriggling until he could get out from under Tom, he was soon able to see the full damage of the spell, and his heart dropped into his stomach. Clearly, it had been some sort of explosive curse – nothing else would have burnt at the same time as torn apart. Tom’s back had essentially been _flayed_. If Harry hadn’t seen some worse injuries during the war, he would have vomited at the sight.

The whole of Tom’s spinal column from his lower-back to just below his shoulders was visible and bloody. Several of his ribs had been clearly detached from it – it was a miracle that his actual column had stayed intact, though Harry suspected several vertebrae were not in the right position and hoped this didn’t mean that his spinal cord had been severed. Magical healing could do a lot, but spinal injuries were tricky even for the best of healers. The rest of Tom’s flesh between his buttocks, which were still covered by his slacks, and the tops of his shoulders was either bloody or burnt black and red. The logical part of Harry’s brain which could keep its calm in even this kind of crisis noted that at least, with more of his flesh being burnt than open, it was reducing his blood-loss.

Springing into action, Harry started casting spells which had been literal life-savers during the war. First, one that would hold the spine in place, no matter what happened to the rest of the body. Next, a special summoning spell which would gently remove any foreign matter from the wounds. After that, a spell for burns which created a thick, moisturising liquid barrier which Harry directed to cover all the open wounds and other burnt areas. Finally, he cast a spell which caused a bandage to wrap around practically the whole of Tom’s torso.

Wiping away the sweat, Harry panted. Those spell were not _easy_ , especially for someone like him who was not a healer by any extent of the imagination, but they had been so useful for quick and effective first aid that he had put the effort into learning them. Checking Tom’s pulse again, Harry was relieved to find it was still present. The man needed urgent medical care, not just the stop-gap measures Harry had taken, but he was at least somewhat stabilised.

Suddenly realising he had completely lost all awareness of the situation around him, Harry abruptly paid attention to more than his heavily damaged slave. Fortunately, he had been with Neville. His friend had clearly jumped from his seat to have a short-lived duel with the caster, if the evidence of stray spell-fire was anything to go by. Said caster was currently wrapped in ropes with Neville standing over him, his wand pointed at the man’s head.

Otherwise, there was more of a stunned silence than anything else, broken only by the wailing of a small child. Everyone had vacated the central area, sheltering behind the booths and under tables. They were only now starting to emerge from their hiding places, Fortescue himself standing up slowly from behind his counter.

There was a flash of floo fire and Harry was relieved to see the red robes of Aurors come through the fireplace. Spotting Luna standing by it, he felt exceedingly grateful that she had kept her priorities straight, since she had clearly flooed through for assistance.

“Now then, what’s happened here?” one of the Aurors rapped out, as the other three with her spread out to secure the area.

“This man shot a curse at us,” replied Neville calmly, only the tense grip he had on his wand betraying his anger.

“At me,” Harry added, more steadily than he felt.

“Mr Potter?” the same auror asked, surprise in her voice. “What were you doing here?” She walked closer to him, pulling out a notepad and a pen. In the periphery of his vision, he saw one of the Aurors walking towards Neville, and another one starting to talk to the people carefully peeping out of their hiding places. What had happened to the fourth, he wasn’t sure, but if his recent studies were anything to judge by, he or she was probably securing the perimeter and checking for any further threats.

“Having an ice-cream with my friends,” Harry replied, suddenly feeling a surge of anger. He did his best to keep it out of his voice and off his face – it wasn’t the Auror’s fault that a maniac had attacked them. “I was talking to Neville and Luna,” he nodded at the two, “when Tom – my slave – suddenly stood up, calling for me in an urgent way.” He then continued to relate what had happened, keeping it as factual and succinct as possible. The Auror took down notes as he spoke. When Harry told her about Tom shielding him, her face showed her surprise. Harry didn’t blame her – he was still in shock that it had happened, too. More so, perhaps, given that he knew the actual identity of the slave in question.

She asked him a few follow-up questions, but when they started revising what he had already told her, Harry held up a hand.

“Please, I’m happy to answer any more questions you have, but _later_. I need to get Tom to St Mungo’s for treatment before the spells wear off or he wakes up.” She hesitated for a moment, then looked at the copious amount of bandages, and the blood liberally sprayed on Harry, Tom and everything around them. She nodded.

“Very well, Mr Potter. Please come to the Ministry Auror office as soon as possible.”

“Thank you!” he said gratefully. Casting another spell to ready Tom for transportation, he became aware of Neville coming up to him.

“You’re going to get him medical care?” asked Neville, a strange note in his voice.

“Yeah, going to take him to St Mungo’s. Hopefully they’ll be able to fix him up good as new, as long as there wasn’t any damage to his spinal cord,” Harry said, concentrating on his spell.

“Good!” Neville replied, sounding suddenly relieved. Harry frowned, turning to him. Why...? Then it hit him.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t give him medical attention?” he asked incredulously. “After he _saved my life_?” Neville looked away sheepishly.

“Many masters wouldn’t,” he muttered. “Not many would take him to the hospital, even if he _had_ saved their lives – they would consider it the slave’s duty.” Harry just shook his head in disbelief.

“Maybe they would; I wouldn’t. I need to get going. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” Neville told him. “I know you’d do the same. Now, go.” Harry nodded, waving briefly at Luna before quickly moving outside the wards and apparating.

Arriving in St Mungo’s apparition area, he quickly strode towards the desk. Fortunately, there wasn’t a queue: Harry didn’t know what he would have done if there had been one. Clearing his throat, he got the attention of the receptionist. The man turned towards him, a bored look on his face before he saw Harry’s characteristic green eyes and the scar on his forehead. Suddenly, he was all attention.

“Mr Potter?” he breathed. “Uh, what can I do for you, Mr Potter?”

“I’ve got a heavily injured man with me. An explosive curse to the back. I’ve given him some basic first aid, but he urgently needs care,” Harry rapped out, no time to be polite. The man’s eyes widened and he immediately pressed a button on the desk.

“Someone will be right with you, Mr Potter. Please just stand to one side.”

“Thank you,” he replied curtly, feeling impatient at the wait. Fortunately he wasn’t waiting for long – a woman in healing robes came striding up.

“You signalled an emergency?” she asked the receptionist shortly. The man nodded and quickly told her what Harry had told him. The woman turned towards Harry, then her face twisted into a moue of disgust as looked at Tom. Harry thought it was rather unprofessional of her to show her emotions at whatever had happened when standing in front of the patient; besides, it wasn’t as if you could even _see_ the damage. Then she spoke, and he realised the disgust wasn’t at Tom’s _injuries_.

“We don’t treat slaves here,” were her words. “You’ll need to get a call-in healer to visit you at home.” No. There was no way Harry was going to do that. First of all, call-in healers could be a bit hit and miss – some of them had the profession because they actually _wanted_ to do house calls, but the rest were such because they had failed to qualify for any other healing institution. Second, they were notoriously difficult to get an appointment with, unless you were a regular patient. Third, they wouldn’t do any sort of round-the-clock care, which Harry suspected Tom would need for the first twenty-four hours at least. He allowed his anger to show on his face as he took a step towards the healer.

“Are you telling me,” he started, quietly but intensely, “that after this man _saved my life_ by _jumping in front of a curse_ for me, you’re going to turn him away because of a bloody _collar_ around his neck?” The woman’s face went pale with shock.

“He…he saved your life?”

“Yes he bloody well did! Go ask the current population of Florean Fortescue’s in Diagon Alley if you don’t believe me!” he half-shouted, drawing stares from the people sitting in the waiting area. The woman swallowed.

“I just…I just thought…” she trailed off. Harry clenched his fist around his wand until the knuckles went white as he understood what she had _thought_.

“I’m not in the habit of beating my slaves so badly they need a hospital!” he ground out. “Now, are you going to treat him, or am I going to have to complain to the Daily Prophet about the treatment at St Mungo’s?” She swallowed again, going even whiter at the thought of what would happen if _Harry Potter_ complained about his treatment. Finally, she took a breath, closed her eyes, and then opened them, steely resolve showing.

“Very well, Mr Potter. Given the extenuating circumstances, I will take personal care of your…your slave. You will, however, have to pay for his treatment – there is no subsidy for property, I’m afraid.”

Irritated at her description of Tom as ‘property’, though he really shouldn’t have been since that was exactly what Tom was by all the laws of the land, he nodded impatiently.

“That’s fine,” he replied. “Just make sure he’s OK.” She eyed him for a moment, but then nodded.

“I will certainly do my best, Mr Potter, though I cannot make any promises until I know how serious his injuries are. Come back in five hours to find out how he’s getting on.” With that, she took over the levitating charm and strode off. Harry was left feeling like something had been taken from him; something he had never realised he’d had until it was gone.

Shaking himself, he turned on his heel, ignoring the eyes that followed him until he passed out of sight. He might as well go to the Ministry, then. Get that over and done with. He’d be back – Tom was in good hands now, he reassured himself.


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Tom's unexpected actions, both Harry and Tom find themselves exploring uncharted territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so this is the chapter that never seemed to end... I thought I'd get a lot further on in the story than I actually managed to do - I'd had the request of including more Tom & Harry normal moments rather than doing time-skips to the important events, so...yeah. It just kept growing. I thought I'd finished it at 23k words, but then realised I'd missed a couple of important points...
> 
> After the tension at the end of the last part, I'm sure you'll all be glad to know that the last scene in this chapter is the fluffiest thing in this story so far ;) 
> 
> Also, about tags and warnings...I'm not the most sensitive person - I read some pretty dark stuff without any problems. As such, I'm not always certain what is likely to be triggering, and what is not. I'm going to edit the tags a bit in the near future - not all of the tags relate to the main characters. If you would like to know more details, message me about it. For this part, I've added a couple of warnings in the end notes, so if you're concerned, scroll down to the bottom of the page first. I figured that would be the best compromise between avoiding potential spoilers and accidental triggers. If you spot something I haven't warned about that you think might need one, please tell me.
> 
> Other than that, thank you so much for all your feedback so far - it's really helped keep me motivated to write. As an additional note, if any of you know how to use work skins, I'd love to pick your brains - the healer's list is supposed to be in Bradley Hand IT, and Tom's writing near the bottom is supposed to be in Copperplate Gothic Bold, but I have no idea how to make that happen :( 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Harry returned to the reception exactly five hours later. In fact, he had actually arrived earlier, having finished with the Ministry and then ending up just pacing in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place, but had decided not to bother the receptionist or healer with excessive inquiries. If anyone had told him six months ago that he would be worried _for_ Voldemort, he would have suggested they should get themselves checked out at this very hospital, but Harry certainly found himself worried for _Tom_. And maybe that was the difference – Tom _wasn’t_ Voldemort. Not anymore, and probably never again.

Harry was starting to wonder if, even if he somehow got free, Tom would be inclined to recover his former identity – certainly, sacrificing himself to save someone else was _not_ expected behaviour from a dark lord. Of course, it could be argued as self-serving – if Harry died, so did Tom, but would the man have risked death to avoid death? That curse had not been messing around. If it had hit Tom in the head, he would have been dead.

Approaching the desk with intent, he inquired about his slave. Fortunately, it was still the same receptionist, so he quickly got an answer.

“Oh, Mr Potter! Healer Pinflower wanted to speak to you as soon as you arrived. Let me send her a memo.” So saying, he quickly scrawled across a memo pad and then tapped it with his wand. The note folded itself into a paper airplane and zoomed off. “We got the idea from the Ministry,” the man explained when he saw Harry’s curious look. The healer arrived shortly after.

“Ah, Mr Potter. Please follow me.” Harry did so, hoping to visit Tom. Instead, they entered an office. If the photo of Healer Pinflower and another woman was any judge, it was her office.

“Aren’t we going to visit Tom?” Harry asked, suddenly fearing the worst. The healer gave him a questioning look.

“Do you wish to?” Harry frowned at the question.

“Of course!” he replied emphatically. He didn’t like the surprise that flashed across the healer’s face at his vehement tone.

“Then we shall do so shortly. First, however, I must inform you of the steps I have taken to stabilise his condition and ask what you would like to be done henceforth. Now, your slave’s condition was serious upon entry. He had sustained multiple fractures to several of the bones in his back from the explosive curse. Five of his ribs sustained oblique fractures with two of them being displaced.” Seeing his non-comprehension, she clarified. “I mean that there were signs of damage to five of his ribs, but only two had fully broken.” Harry nodded, understanding. “Ten of his vertebrae also sustained damage, either in terms of a fracture or both a fracture and a slight displacement. Fortunately, no damage was sustained to his spinal cord, or indeed, to compromise his spinal column integrity.” Harry breathed out a sigh of relief. If Tom’s spinal cord was OK, the rest should be fixable.

“Continuing on, his soft tissue had sustained significant trauma from the injury. The areas in close proximity to the blast epicentre ranged between second and third-degree burns as well as blunt force trauma. Areas further away from the epicentre, such as his lower back, shoulders and neck, had sustained burns ranging between first and second-degree. As you can imagine, this caused his body to go into shock. He is currently in a magically-induced sleep, but can be woken at any time if you would like to take him immediately.”

“Is he OK now, then?” Harry asked, confused. He thought it would take a lot longer than five hours to heal those kinds of injuries. The woman tilted her head to one side in a non-committal response.

“I have stabilised him and he is now at a low risk of further complications, however I didn’t want to proceed to non-necessary treatment before gaining your authorisation. Historically, St Mungo’s has not catered to slave-owners, but it happened on occasion before the end of slavery as a punishment was completely brought into force. In such cases, procedure dictates that as the slave-owner both owns the slave and is obliged to pay for the treatment, all non-life-threatening treatment is to be done only with express permission.”

“So what would happen to Tom if no more treatment was pursued,” Harry asked in order to see what he was dealing with. The healer pulled out a piece of paper and slid it in front of him. Tapping it with her wand, it filled with a short list of entries.

  * **3 x blood-replenisher potions – 40G**
  * **1 x bone-mender draught – 24G**
  * **1 x anti-infection philtre – 5G**
  * **4 x burn-balm pastes (str 4) – 72G , 12S**
  * **1 x general healing potion (str 3) 15G**
  * **3 hours 34 minutes of care by Healer Pinflower (Master healer acc.) 93G, 5S**
  * **5 hours of bedspace – 25G**



**Total: 175G**

“As you can see,” said the healer, pointing at the list, “this is a breakdown of the various costs of his treatment so far. You are obliged to pay this before you are allowed to collect him. If no payment is made, the slave will be returned to the Ministry from whom we will recoup our costs, before the Ministry sells him to a different master.” Harry decided not to tell her that in his case, that wasn’t possible – it was hardly going to be an issue, so there was no need to raise it. “If you choose to take him with you today, your slave will take several months to heal completely, assuming light duties which do not require him to lie on his back.” It took a moment for her meaning to register, aided by her slight expression of disgust. When he did realise what she was getting at, Harry felt like being sick at the implication that he would…that he would expect…bedroom activities from his slave in that condition. He would have been outraged that she thought him capable of expecting that sort of thing from him at all, except that from the reading he’d done so far, it generally _was_ expected, unless the primary master was not interested or too old. But still…. She continued talking.

“You should also purchase a few burn-balm pastes of at least strength 2 and a couple of anti-infection philtres to help the healing along and avoid him picking up an infection during normal activities.”

“And if I pursue treatment for him?” The woman took a breath and let it out slowly. Harry wondered whether it was a sigh of relief or of annoyance.

“Then it depends on how much you would like to do. If you would like him restored to decent condition, that is, bearing scars but functional, I estimate another two hundred or so galleons in potion and time costs plus another ten hours of recuperation time in the hospital bed, which would run you fifty galleons by itself.”

“And if I want him, uh, _restored_ to the best condition you can get him in?” The woman eyed him.

“Is that also including healing some old injuries and correcting some evidence of short-term malnutrition?” Harry considered, but didn’t need to think too long over it.

“Yes.” She was silent for a moment, evidently running numbers through her head.

“I can’t give you an exact estimate,” she said slowly. “However, I anticipate that it might be another five hundred to seven hundred galleons. That would take your total to perhaps around nine hundred galleons.” She hesitated slightly before continuing. “Just to make sure you’re fully aware of the situation, if you chose to sell the slave, he probably wouldn’t recoup your losses unless he’s considered a collectable item. As an unknown, I would estimate his value to be less than seven hundred galleons.”

“I understand,” Harry said, and he did. He understood finally how slaves were seen in this world – that their pain and suffering were worth less than a couple of months’ rent to their masters. That everything was based on how much they could be sold for. Nine hundred galleons was a lot of money, yes, but not for a _person_. Hermione had explained money in the Wizarding world to him while they were on the run, and her explanation had been a lot more comprehensive than ‘twenty-nine knuts to the sickle, seventeen sickles to the galleon’: the explanation Hagrid had given him on first entry to the Wizarding world.

It had come about because, starving and desperate, but with their only money being a small pile of galleons that they couldn’t use due to being Undesirables number one, two and three, Harry had suggested they sell a galleon to a muggle pawnbroker, and use the muggle money to buy food. It had seemed a decent idea to him – pawnbrokers would buy it for the gold and they’d just never go back for it. However, Hermione had quickly shot it down.

It seemed that the goblins had already considered the idea that wizards might choose to go to the muggle world to make some money, thereby denuding Gringotts of the galleons. As a result, every coin, galleon, sickle, or knut contained an enchantment within its metal which would make it seem worthless to any non-magical eye or measuring device. In fact, if examined by a muggle, it would appear to be a cheap plastic coin toy, nothing that they would want. Even destroying the coin wouldn’t help – the enchantments were imbued in the different metals in a way that only the goblins were capable of: their skills with metal and stone were unmatched.

That, of course, had led on to a discussion on how, then, Gringotts set its conversion values between muggle money and galleons. After all, when Hermione had purchased her supplies for her last year at school, it had been a rate of 5.65 pounds to the galleon. Now, if the rate had been based on gold price which had apparently been around £250 per ounce the last time Hermione had been aware of it – why she looked at gold prices at all, Harry had no idea, but it was Hermione, enough said – that would put each galleon’s value at around £50. However, what Hermione had explained was that it wasn’t based on the value of its base materials, but on its _purchasing power_.

Now this was another term Harry hadn’t really been familiar with, but after Hermione had explained, he had understood. It was about the relative cost of purchasing products and services. For example, if Harry bought a normal book in the muggle world, it would cost perhaps £5. A book of a similar quality bought in Flourish and Blotts would be worth 1G. Thus, the purchasing power of 1G was £5. Similarly, a rent for an apartment in London might be approximately £1500 per month; a rent in a magical area of London might be 300G. At the same time, salaries were numerically significantly lower. Mr Weasley, as a Head of Department in the Ministry, might earn just short of 9000G per year; an equivalent House of Parliament cabinet member might earn around £45,000 in the same time.

So, based on his knowledge of the purchasing power of galleons, he was looking at paying perhaps £4,500 in medical bills for a slave who was reckoned by the healer to only be worth £3,500, since she didn’t know his true identity. Putting these against other figures, Tom was considered by the healer to be worth less than a tenth of Mr Weasley’s annual salary, or perhaps two and a bit months’ rent for an apartment in London. Harry wasn’t sure if he had ever felt so disgusted with the Wizarding world.

“I will take the third option for him, please,” he said, trying not to let his ire show through – the healer was just doing her job, after all, and she _had_ agreed to taking care of Tom in the first place. Nevertheless, he was further annoyed when she showed visible surprise.

“You are aware that the full treatment is not necessary for any sort of use you wish to put your slave to, and will not result in debilitating permanent physical damage, yes?” she clarified.

“ _Yes_ , I’m aware,” he told her, some of his anger showing through despite his best efforts. She gave him a thoughtful look and then noted something down on the piece of paper. Showing it to him, she asked for his assent. It came to a total of eight hundred and fifty-nine galleons, seven sickles.

“There may be one or two extra charges if certain treatments take longer or require more magical aids to deal with, but this is definitely the minimum,” she informed him. He nodded as he looked through the list of potions. Seeing something missing, he frowned and looked back up at her.

“Is Tom likely to be in pain at any point in this process?” She shrugged very slightly.

“Quite likely – it will be impossible to keep him in an induced magical sleep for the whole time, and some of the treatments are uncomfortable.” Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Then why don’t I see any pain-relief potions on here?” he asked, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice. After all, maybe it was because pain-relief potions would clash with the potions used for treatment – he might be getting better at Potions, but that didn’t mean he’d know off-hand which potions couldn’t be used together. Both of her eyebrows shot up.

“I didn’t add them because I didn’t think you’d care about your slave being uncomfortable,” she told him frankly. “The pain won’t be excruciating, and I rather imagined that he was used to pain, being what he is. Please pardon me if I made an incorrect assumption.” Harry looked at her directly. She met his gaze with no artifice. She truly _had_ believed that he wouldn’t be bothered about a bit of discomfort, and that he tortured his slave often enough to increase Tom’s pain tolerance levels to heights where they wouldn’t be touched by the treatment. Harry could only shake his head in despair.

“Please give them to him if he expresses any signs of discomfort, or if he asks for them. In essence, while he’s under your care, please treat him like he’s a normal patient; not a slave. I’m not like those other masters you seem to be judging me by.” She looked at him searchingly for a few moments.

“No,” she finally said, softly. “No, you’re not.”

After that, they were able to go and see Tom. He was on his front on a hospital bed, his back covered in bandages and his head turned to one side. He was asleep, but even in his sleep, he was frowning. Harry recognised lines of pain around his eyes and mouth, and his face had none of that innocence which had been there the last time Harry had seen Tom sleeping. Instead, it looked worn, tired out by a life which had never been easy. Harry gently stroked a lock of his hair out of his face and behind his ear, a surge of protectiveness rising inside him.

Feeling discomforted by his own emotions, Harry stepped back and looked towards Healer Pinflower, intending on asking for a pain-relief potion on Tom’s behalf. Instead, the healer was already ahead of him, spelling a potion directly into Tom’s stomach that Harry recognised from the sheer number of times he had had to take it. Within a few minutes, the lines on Tom’s face had softened and he seemed to relax further into the bed.

“I won’t wake him for another few hours unless you order it,” the healer told him quietly. “He needs the time to rest and let the potions do their work. Come by on Monday to pick him up. I’ll send an owl if there’s anything that needs your attention before then.”

“Can I come visit tomorrow? Will he be awake?” The healer showed surprise once again, but this time controlled it a lot better.

“Between 4pm and 6pm is a good time to visit – he will probably be awake during that time. At least, I won’t be using the magical inducement, but whether he’ll be sleeping because his body needs it….” Harry nodded.

“I’ll do that, then.” Healer Pinflower nodded sharply.

“Good. Now, when you come to collect him on Monday, you will need to bring with you both the galleons for his treatment and your certificate of ownership. I’m afraid we cannot release property without proof of ownership.” Stomach curling again at the blatant description of Tom as his ‘property’, Harry agreed, making a mental note to dig out that certificate Kingsley had given him all the way back in August. Then, taking his leave, he went home to an empty house and a dinner that he had to make for himself.

XXX

Tom woke slowly. He became aware that he wasn’t at home – his sheets weren’t as scratchy as these, nor did they normally smell of industrial-level cleaning charms. Opening his eyes, he realised another difference – his sheets weren’t _white_. Trying to roll onto his back – not being comfortable lying on his stomach in an unfamiliar place – he immediately realised that it was a bad idea. Pain shot through him, not the collar this time, but a more familiar pain of physical injury. What had he done this time?

Oh. Memory returned and Tom grimaced. He had got this _delightful_ injury from playing hero and jumping in front of a curse. How…Gryffindorish of him. Still, he wasn’t dead, which had to be the best possible result of that hellish scenario. And, if his guess was correct, he seemed to be in St Mungo’s. He recognised the place by its combination of white everywhere and the murmur of many people moving around and talking.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a voice said. He tried to shift around to see who was speaking, but was quickly told not to. “No, don’t move around – you’ll undo all of my hard work.” The person moved until she was in his field of vision. And a _she_ it certainly was – a healer by the looks of things and, yes, he was at St Mungo’s for sure. Nowhere else had that logo on their uniforms. Meeting her eyes, he saw her flinch as she saw his red orbs, and immediately remembered that he wasn’t supposed to meet the eyes of non-enslaved people. If his medical condition was as bad as it felt like, he didn’t want to make it worse by inviting a complaint to the Ministry and then a subsequent Ministry-enforced punishment.

“Where’s my master?” he inquired politely, though not managing to add a ‘ma’am’ on the end as he probably should. Fortunately, the healer didn’t seem offended.

“He _said_ he was going to visit later today, but I’ve told him to come pick you up on Monday, so he’ll probably be here then.” She sounded like she didn’t believe Harry would show up, but Tom was pretty sure that if he said he would visit, he would. He kept that thought to himself, though. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been worse,” Tom replied wryly. She made a soft sound as if in agreement, or maybe sympathy. Tom thought dryly that while _he_ was referring to having been completely disembodied for thirteen years, _she_ probably thought he was thinking of being punished by his master.

“Are you in any pain?” He thought about it.

“A little,” he said eventually, “but nothing significant.” She nodded.

“Very well. Your master has given permission for you to be given pain-relief potions if you ask for them, so please don’t hesitate to ask if you have a need.” She paused and then looked at him searchingly. “You’re very lucky, you know,” she remarked softly. Tom frowned.

“Excuse me?”

“To have such a kind master,” she clarified. “He actually fought for you to be admitted. We don’t normally treat slaves in St Mungo’s.”

“Why not?” Tom asked, storing away the fact that Harry had apparently fought for him. For some reason it made something inside him feel warm.

“Because usually, the reason a master brings his or her slave here is because they’ve beaten the poor thing so badly that they’re worried the slave will die or be permanently injured. It simply does not match with our vows to do no harm when we are patching up a slave only to send them back into the same situation that caused the injuries in the first place. As a result, the Head of St Mungo’s decided long ago to not accept slaves as patients except in special cases.”

“So I’m a special case, am I?” Tom asked, amused. The healer’s mouth quirked up.

“Well, that depends. How did you get injured?” Tom thought about it. Should he tell the truth? Or should he lie? Then, figuring that Harry, being a Gryffindor, had probably already told her what had happened, he decided it would be counter-productive to lie.

“I took a blasting curse meant for my master,” he informed her. When that quirk at the corner of her lips turned into a small smile, he knew he’d picked the right option.

“Then yes, you’re a special case.” There was a pause for a moment. “Still,” she continued after clearly having been in thought for a while, “you’re lucky. Your master didn’t decide to just give you the basic treatment; he didn’t even decide to give you treatment purely to get you functional, despite that being expensive enough. No, he decided to give you the _full_ treatment, meaning that you’ll be better coming out of here than you were before the curse. Do you know how rare it is for a master to choose to spend more on his slave than the slave’s worth?” Tom could probably guess, given what he had learned about the way slavery had worked in the Wizarding world in the past.

“Rare?” he hazarded a guess.

“ _Very_ rare,” she agreed. “In fact, there are a couple of incidents on record where a master, bringing in a bloody and battered slave, decided not to pay for _any_ treatment once he had heard the price. Actually, in one of those cases, the master just walked away, leaving the slave on the floor in front of the reception desk – apparently, according to the healer who made that record, the master had said that the cost of the treatment was far more than she could get from selling the slave in good condition. She would rather St Mungo’s deal with the slave and sell him back to the Ministry, than have to take on his medical care. As for the rest, the vast majority chose the minimum amount of treatment and then took the slave as quickly as possible. Like I say, I don’t think you realise how lucky you are.” No smile remained, just a serious gaze that bored into Tom. He frowned.

“Why are you telling me this?” She looked at him for a moment more before answering.

“Because I don’t know what goes on in your master’s house, and I don’t expect you to tell me. Maybe he is some tender-heart who is nothing but smiles and hugs with you – Merlin, given that he’s _Harry Potter_ , I hope that’s true. But maybe he isn’t. He bought a slave, after all. So, really, I’m telling you this because if you need to be grateful to keep him sweet, I want you to know _how_ grateful you need to be. Really, I don’t want to be just another of those healers who patches a slave up and then throws him back into a nightmare without doing what I can.” Tom nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” he said after a few moments. _He_ knew that wasn’t what his life was like, but _she_ didn’t, and he could appreciate that she was trying to help him. Though, perhaps as an object lesson it had missed its mark, if nothing else, he could recognise that the books _hadn’t_ been exaggerating about the treatment generally experienced by slaves. The healer nodded and then after that, was purely professional and continued to tell him about his injuries, the treatment he had had so far and what was expected to take place.

Taking in her words with one ear, Tom thought about what she had said previously. He had to admit that even with what he had come to understand about Harry’s character, it was good to know that his master would protect him if Tom took a chance on Harry’s behalf. And a full treatment? That was slightly unexpected, nonetheless. There was no need to deal with injuries which had taken place since his rebirth and hadn’t been healed properly – Tom had never mastered healing magic and as Lord Voldemort had refused to seem weak enough to need someone to heal him. Nor was there any need to counter his slight malnutrition from being in the hands of the Ministry for three months. Neither of those conditions impacted his usefulness or really gave him any discomfort – the latter was being dealt with by time and decent food, anyway.

Tom supposed that it was Harry’s way of saying ‘thank you’, but it left him feeling slightly uncomfortable. Yes, he had undoubtedly saved Harry’s life – given what the healer had said his injuries were, if the curse had hit Harry, as unprepared as he had been, they would have been significantly more serious and probably lethal – but it _was_ rather self-serving. If Harry had died, Tom would have died. End of. But, Tom supposed, if Harry _wanted_ to be grateful…who was he to turn it away?

As his treatment for that time, the healer changed his bandages and smoothed burn-balm across his wounds. She also gave him a couple of potions he didn’t recognise. Tom did end up asking for a pain-relief potion in the end as one of the potions caused a dull ache to pervade his body. Then, she told him she’d put him back in a magical sleep for a few hours to allow the potions to work uninterrupted. Tom agreed, not that he probably had much choice, because he understood how when sleeping, his magic would aid the potions where, when awake, they might actively oppose some of the effects.

XXX

The next time he woke, Harry was there and the quiet around them revealed the presence of a privacy charm. He was sitting in the chair by Tom’s bedside, reading a book. Tom took a moment to just look at him, taking advantage of the fact that he was distracted by his book. Suddenly, he realised that he’d never really _looked_ at Harry. He’d always been studying the boy’s expressions or watching what he was doing in order to know how best to affect him.

Now, looking at him, well, he wasn’t sure he could keep calling Harry ‘the boy’ in his thoughts – there was little boyishness left in his master. Instead, his face had all the lines of an adult, though his shoulders might continue to broaden a little in the next few years. There was a crease in between his eyebrows, perhaps at the book, and his lips were twitching, as if longing to say aloud something in what he was reading. When he looked up and locked gazes with Tom, the first thing that came to his mind was that he’d never realised how _green_ Harry’s eyes were, nor how much they had been obscured by his glasses until he had got rid of them.

“Tom, you’re awake,” Harry said redundantly, something he evidently realised as a hint of colour rose to his cheeks.

“I am, master,” he replied, the respectful address grating less than usual. Harry had…Harry had kept good faith with him. Tom had protected him, and Harry had protected him in his turn. He was, well, he was worth more respect than many of Lord Voldemort’s Death Eaters, for one thing.

“That’s good,” replied Harry. “Tom…” he leaned forwards, setting his book to one side. “Look, I just…Thank you. Thank you for taking that curse for me.” Caught off guard by the sheer sincerity in Harry’s voice, Tom found that he had to look away for a moment. Shrugging slightly uncomfortably, he replied with the first thing that came to his mind.

“Well, if you die, I die, right?” He looked back at his master’s eyes, expecting anger at his honest response. In fact, Tom wasn’t sure _why_ he had given an honest response – Merlin knew it would be far better for his plans to have a grateful master – but there was something about Harry’s sincerity that called for honesty in return. Instead of anger, there was a strange expression of…understanding in Harry’s emerald eyes.

“Perhaps,” agreed Harry noncommittally, “but you didn’t have to take the curse for me, anyway. I might have survived, especially with my magic acting instinctively to protect me.” Tom fidgeted uncomfortably. That was true, but even factored into his calculations, he still knew he’d have done the same thing.

“Well, you didn’t need to pay for a _full_ treatment, either,” he retorted, trying to get away from his uncomfortable emotions. His master frowned.

“Now don’t you start on that, too,” he said almost crossly. Tom’s eyebrows rose in surprise at his tone.

“Master,” he began tentatively, “start on what?” Harry sighed and waved a hand impatiently.

“It’s just…Everyone seems to think I’m a monster all of a sudden. Just because I have a slave, apparently all morals go out the window! I mean, the Ministry was happy to believe I was torturing you on a regular basis when they visited; the healer seemed to think I would just take you as soon as you weren’t at death’s door.” He snorted in disgust. “Heck, she even thought it was necessary to inform me, by implication, that-that fucking you with you on your back while your injuries were healing was something to be avoided!”

Suddenly realising what he had said, Harry stopped and blushed furiously. Tom paled as the words and Harry’s reaction registered. He had a horrible suspicion that the other man wouldn’t have reacted as much to his own words if he hadn’t actually entertained the idea in the first place. While Tom was certain that his master’s outrage at the idea of…copulating while his slave was injured was sincere, he hoped that his master’s reaction didn’t mean he was considering the idea for when Tom _wasn’t_ injured. The idea of being forced to serve his master sexually was…abhorrent, to say the least. Tom hadn’t thought about the possibility before his master’s words, but now he wondered if he should have. Well, no helping it now. All Tom could do was hope to not be appealing enough for Harry to act on his possible thoughts, and that started with not reacting to the subject at all.

Fortunately Harry didn’t notice his reaction as he was avoiding Tom’s gaze while the blush faded. He cleared his throat and then continued in a quieter tone.

“Anyway, I’m sick of being assumed to be a monster. So, yes, I chose for you to have a full treatment. You saved me from serious injury, at the very least. Besides,” and here Harry finally met Tom’s eyes again, a hint of mischief in them, “since I inherited a good portion of your estate, I suppose you could say that _you_ paid for your own treatment.” Here he grinned at Tom, and the latter couldn’t help but allow the corner of his lips to quirk up in response. To be fair, it was rather ironic, wasn’t it, that he would end up paying for his own treatment after saving the boy he’d been trying to kill for years?

“Then perhaps I should _thank_ myself, master,” he replied airily. The other man laughed.

“Sure, why not. But I still feel I should thank you – treating you for your injuries is not enough. So, _Prae_ -“ Suddenly realising what his master was planning, Tom’s eyes widened and he quickly interrupted Harry.

“Master! Please, no!” Harry stopped speaking, frowning.

“What’s the problem? I was just going to say the word to activate the reward function of the collar.”

“I know, master,” Tom said quietly. Harry’s frown deepened.

“Then what’s the problem?” he repeated. Tom hesitated, wondering what he should say.

“I don’t like it when the collar rewards me,” he said finally. It felt very strange to make himself that vulnerable, to admit to something that he disliked. If he’d ever done that at either the orphanage or Hogwarts, it would have been used against him in a few seconds flat. After leaving Hogwarts and gathering his followers, showing vulnerability would have had the sharks circling immediately. Why on earth would he have settled for having _Wormtail_ help him when he had so many other, much more competent followers, if he hadn’t been worried about them taking advantage of his vulnerability? But for some reason, he felt he could trust Harry with this.

“Why?” Harry asked. Tom struggled to put the concept into words.

“I don’t like the way it can control me,” he admitted finally, the words feeling like they were torn straight from his soul. Creating a horcrux had hurt less than this. “Pain is…pain. It’s manageable until it isn’t. But pleasure? It seduces, it addicts. It changes my mind without me even knowing.” Finally meeting Harry’s eyes, he was met once more by an unexpectedly understanding gaze. There was a moment of tension before Harry nodded slowly.

“Very well. I won’t intentionally use the reward function of the collar,” he said finally. Tom dipped his head.

“Thank you, master,” he said, and meant it. If Harry broke his promise…well, he’d deal with that if – when – it came.

“But I still want to reward you,” Harry continued, his tone lightening. “So, what do you want?” Tom thought about it. Considering how grateful Harry seemed to be, it was almost like he had written a blank cheque. But ultimately, there were only two things Tom needed, and he wasn’t sure whether even as grateful as he was, Harry would give him one of them. Mind made up, he looked back up at Harry.

“May I have free access to any book in the Black library, master?” Harry looked at him with an incredulous gaze. Tom did his best to appear innocent, or at least, not plotting to escape, which is what he really was. It was surprisingly hard not to fidget. Eventually Harry spoke.

“Seriously, you potentially save my life, and _this_ is what you ask for? Sure, as long as I have your word that you will not use any of the magic on other people without permission. Heck, I’ll extend the permission to any other books that you could reasonably be expected to be able to read if you weren’t a slave. Plus, if there are any books you are desperate to read that we don’t have, tell me and I’ll see whether I can buy them for you.”

“Thank you master,” Tom replied immediately, surprised at Harry’s generosity. Maybe he _could_ have asked for free use of his magic after all…Ah well, too late now. Never mind – it was probably more important to be able to read practically any book, anyway. He had been struggling to continue with his research on the collar as the supply of books he was able to read which were ‘connected’ to plants in some way or other, but were also useful for Arithmancy had dried up. Now, he would have a lot more free rein. As for Harry’s condition, it was easy enough to agree to – the likelihood of the counter to the collar requiring him to cast magic on his master was slim, considering what he’d already decoded. After it was off, there would be no need to keep to his agreement. He kept his grin hidden with difficulty – this was a major victory. Now…now he had access to hopefully all the information he needed. But there was one other thing… “Master?”

“Yes?”

“I have another request.”

“Yes?” This time, it sounded a mixture of wary and amused. An interesting combination… Tom hesitated. How could he put this?

“Master…when you go out, may I come with you?” Harry frowned in confusion. “Not to Hogwarts or the Ministry,” Tom clarified. “Or even one of your friends’ houses. But if you go to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, or some other public place…please take me with you.”

“Why?” asked Harry baffled. Tom hesitated again. Revealing vulnerability earlier had helped significantly… Should he try the same method?

“As I said earlier, master, if you die, I die. After this incident…if you go out on your own, I’ll be worrying the whole time that something’s going to happen to you, and I won’t even know until you die. If I’m there, maybe I can do something to help. Or even if not, at least I’ll _know_.” He was relieved to see his master nodding his head slowly. He hadn’t felt like he’d explained it very well, but then he couldn’t even work out his _own_ emotions and why the idea of Harry dying felt more significant than simply being a precursor to his own death.

“You know if you want to do this, you’re going to have to stick to the public standards of behaviour perfectly,” Harry warned. Tom nodded.

“I’m aware,” he replied simply. It was…bearable. The idea of sitting at home and waiting to die was not. Harry nodded again.

“Very well. I’m not going to force you, but if you want to come, by all means.”

“And can I perhaps have permission to use defensive magic, if you are attacked, master?” Tom asked hopefully. Harry chuckled.

“I’ll think about it,” was all he agreed to. Tom shrugged – he’d got far more out of this than he’d ever imagined, so he’d be satisfied with that. Harry then turned serious. “There is one other thing, actually,” he said. “Kingsley spoke to me about it at the Ministry yesterday. He’d heard about the incident and came to find out what had happened,” he explained. “Because your whole thing is different from that of most slaves, if something happened to me – not death, but some serious injury – no one would be able to get your collar to respond.”

That didn’t seem so bad for Tom. His opinion clearly showed on his face as Harry continued. “Yes, I know that sounds great, but think about it. You wouldn’t be able to leave Grimmauld Place, ever. You would never be allowed to use your magic. There could be no changes to the rules of your collar.” That was true… “So, Kingsley suggested I leave a backup plan. If something happens to me, Kingsley will send someone to fetch you. He will call you ‘kitten’ and will say that Kingsley sent him. I expect you to obey that person until you get to Kingsley. Kingsley will then assign you a temporary master. You will obey that person as if he, or she, were me until I am able to come and get you. Do you understand?”

Tom was not exactly _happy_ about it. He had finally come to the realisation that life with Harry was not terrible, and he was working out how to manage the other man to his own benefit. There was no way he wanted to have to adapt to some other person. Still, if he was able to go out with Harry and help protect him while he was out, maybe it would decrease the chances of that sort of thing happening… Well, in the end, what choice did he have?

“Yes, master,” he agreed, though he didn’t hesitate to let his discontent show through his voice. No doubt the healer would be horrified at his lack of ‘gratitude’, but Tom knew Harry well enough to know that the man would rather hear honest discontent than a fake happiness. It was just another way in which they were alike.

Still, it was useful to know that if he did something for Harry, or behaved in a way that made Harry feel indebted to him, his master would be inclined to be generous. Tom wasn’t sure at that moment how he could use the information, but he was sure it would help him later.

XXX

Getting home, Harry sighed as he settled into his sofa. Well, at least Tom seemed OK. The healer had done a good job so far, from what Harry could tell. He was thankful that the man should come out of the hospital not bearing any damage from taking the curse for Harry. Somehow, their dynamic seemed to have shifted with the uncharacteristic action. Not by massive amounts, of course, but the way Harry had felt while dealing with Tom had been inevitably altered by his gratitude for the man’s choice to suffer instead of allowing Harry to be hit.

What would that mean for them in the future? Tom had access to any book he needed for his research now, which would probably mean that _that_ whole situation would come to a head sooner rather than later. And…he’d expressed some form of concern for Harry’s well-being. At least, when it came to public places. Sure, Harry knew it was probably more to do with his own self-preservation – if he was present, he would be able to do his best to prevent his master from being killed and thereby himself dying – but was it just that?

Harry wasn’t sure whether to grant Tom’s request about using defensive magic. Sure, he could limit the man’s use of it to only necessary situations, but it was a risk nonetheless. It was probably enough of a risk to have him out there unrestrained; if Tom used magic and hurt someone, and his former identity came out, Harry would be _crucified_ in the media over it. And he couldn’t rely on Tom’s self-preservation instincts to stop him from taking advantage, either; any consequences to that sort of misuse would reflect worse on Harry than Tom, probably.

No, it was probably too much of a risk. But then, if Tom had been able to use defensive magic in Fortescue’s, he would have been able to cast a defensive shield to absorb the curse rather than being horribly injured…. But then again, did Harry know for certain that’s what he would have done? What if he’d deflected the curse into the crowd and hit someone with it? Someone who’d died? Would anyone have understood the situation? Would _Harry_ have been able to forgive _himself_ for allowing Tom access to magic which had indirectly killed someone? He sighed, unable to answer any of those questions.

The fire he was staring at flashed green. He snapped to attention and leant forwards just as the head of his best friend appeared in it.

“Harry!” Ron shouted, before noticing that the person he wanted to speak to was right in front of him. “ _There_ you are,” he said impatiently, as if he’d had to search for ages. “What the hell was up with that letter this morning? Why did you give your ticket to _Ginny?”_ he demanded. Oh. Well, Harry probably should have expected this call. That morning, he’d realised that there was no way he’d be going to the quidditch match – it was supposed to start at three pm and could easily go on for more than two hours. With wanting to visit Tom during the time the healer had given him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to attend, but he hadn’t wanted to waste the ticket. Fortunately, he’d known someone who would appreciate it.

“Sorry, Ron,” Harry apologised. “I had to visit Tom in the hospital.” Ron frowned in confusion.

“Visit him in the hospital? You mean you lent him out to the healers?” Harry shook his head.

“No, he’s _in_ the hospital.” The confusion on Ron’s face didn’t clear.

“You mean he’s injured? What happened?” Thankful that for _once_ someone wasn’t accusing him of _beating his slave_ to the point that he needed medical attention, Harry launched into an explanation of what had happened the previous day. After he finished, Ron was silent for a few moments.

“He really took the curse for you?” he asked quietly. Harry nodded. “Well, that’s…” he trailed off. Harry felt the same way. “Could this be some slimy Slytherin scheme?” Ron asked, perking up. Harry found it somewhat amusing that Ron seemed to prefer to think it was a manipulation than think well of the man who used to be Voldemort. He shrugged.

“Only in as much as he knows that if I die, he does too. But Ron, it was a serious risk to take. Several of his vertebrae shifted – if there had been more force behind the curse, he could have been paralysed. And if it had hit him elsewhere, he could have been killed. He was gambling with his _life_ there. Hell of a risk to take for a manipulation…” Ron grimaced.

“You’ve got a point. Well, I’ve got nothing. Maybe –“ he cut himself off, cocking his head to one side. “Listen, mate, Hermione’s home.” He frowned, listening more carefully. “I think…I think she’s _crying_. Hold on.” Ron’s head disappeared. Since he hadn’t cut the floo connection, though, Harry could still hear muffled noises from the other side.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” he heard Ron say. There was a muffled sound which Harry guessed was a reply, then it got louder until he was able to actually make out words.

“- and called me a Death Eater sympathiser because I said abuse wasn’t a fair punishment! Oh Ron!” Feeling uncomfortable hearing her cry without her knowing, Harry wondered whether he should cut the connection anyway. The decision was taken out of his hands when a moment later, Ron popped his head through again.

“Look, I’ve got to go, Harry. Hermione’s in a right state. Some wanker at work’s been giving her a hard time recently. Just…” he hesitated for a moment. “Ah, never mind. Have a good evening – see you tomorrow.” Harry nodded and opened his mouth to wish Ron the same in return, but his friend had already withdrawn and cut the connection.

XXX

With Harry going to Hogwarts on Monday, the time flew until he could go and pick up Tom. The previous evening had been very strange. He hadn’t realised how much he had got used to Tom’s presence until the man wasn’t there. And it wasn’t that Harry had missed his cooking – Tom had improved by leaps and bounds, but Harry was still years ahead of him – or anything like that; it was more the sense that the house was empty, quiet. That when Harry fell asleep, there was no one else there but him. It was something he wasn’t used to, and didn’t really like. After all, first he’d lived with the Dursleys who made no effort to hide their presence. Then he was in Hogwarts and sharing a dorm with four other boys. Next he was on the run with Ron and Hermione, sharing a tent with them… It had been only since the war that he’d been solitary. He’d thought he liked it, but it wasn’t until Tom had come and then gone that Harry realised how much he _didn’t_ like being completely alone.

And the man wasn’t bad company, really. He didn’t invade Harry’s every waking moment with either words or simply his presence. Indeed, some days, they only saw each other for a few minutes over dinner. But Harry found the knowledge of his presence, the intermittent reminders of a creaking floor, a footstep, an aggravated mutter, was enough to keep the loneliness at bay. As for when they managed to coexist quietly in the evenings, each reading his own book in the sitting room…in some ways, those moments were the highlights of Harry’s daily routine.

So, as soon as he finished at the school, he dropped by the bank to pick up a thousand galleons and then by the house to find that certificate of ownership Kingsley had given him. Returning to St Mungo’s, he went directly to the front desk, feeling impatient when he had to wait in line for about ten minutes.

“St Mungo’s, how can I help?” the woman at the desk said cheerfully, then her eyes widened as she recognised him. “Mr Potter! What can I do for you?” Harry sighed internally, but outwardly wore a genial expression.

“Hi, I’m here to pick up Tom Riddle.” She looked through the records on her desk, a frown forming on her face.

“I’m sorry, I have no record of a Tom Riddle.” Sighing for real this time, Harry leant closer.

“He might be under my name – he’s my slave,” he admitted. The woman’s eyes widened further and a surprised expression crossed her face.

“ _You_ have a…I understand, you have a slave,” she repeated with bemusement. Returning to the pile of parchment, she started leafing through it again. “Ah, here we are: Slave Tom for Master Harry Potter. Yes, he’s ready to be released to you.” She looked awkward. “Apparently I’m supposed to ask you to show your certificate of ownership and to pay the total before he can be released...” Harry nodded.

“It’s OK, the healer made sure I was aware of the hospital’s requirements,” he told her reassuringly. She smiled at him gratefully as she slid a document over. Harry looked at the bill. It wasn’t much dissimilar from what the healer had previously shown him – the main difference was that Tom had had four pain-relief potions over the last two days and had been in the hospital for a few hours longer than expected due to Harry’s day at Hogwarts. Still, his thousand galleons easily covered the costs. In the end, he counted out the change from his bag of galleons and then just gave the rest to her. She looked flustered for a moment before casting a spell on it. A number floated over the top and she smiled again at Harry.

“That seems all present and correct, Mr Potter. Now, can I see…?” Harry slid the certificate over and she inspected it carefully. “OK, that’s great, thank you.” She stamped a form and passed it over to Harry. He checked through it – it was just a summary of all the treatment, the fact that he’d paid and a receipt of collection in one. He signed it, the receptionist duplicated it, and then he was ready to take Tom home.

“Is Tom still in the same room as last time?” he checked. The receptionist looked.

“Ah, no. He’s in Waiting Area Seven – the healer wanted to free up his bed since he’s completely healed.”

“OK, thanks,” Harry told her, happy he’d asked instead of just charging off as his first instinct had been. “How do I get there?”

“Just follow the corridor, take a right and then the second left. It’s there.” Harry smiled at the receptionist and she blushed slightly.

“Thanks again.”

“No problem, Mr Potter. Please come again. I mean, for a visit, not because you need treatment, that is. Oh!” she continued muttering to herself, a mortified look on her face as he nodded politely and then walked off in the direction she’d pointed. He supposed that awe-filled adulation was better than people accusing him of being a dark lord and being afraid of him, but given a choice, he’d rather have neither….

Following the directions, he soon found the waiting room. It was as depressing as all other hospital waiting rooms – white and clinical with uncomfortable chairs. Tom was leaning against one of the walls, looking stiff. There were two women and a man also waiting in the room. Harry walked over to him.

“Tom,” he said getting nearer.

“Master,” Tom greeted him, dipping his head. Harry noticed one of the women look over at him, then start whispering to the lady next to her. Harry tried to stop himself from getting irritated.

“Why are you standing?” he asked, to try to distract himself. Tom cast a glance back to the same ladies.

“I didn’t think sitting would be…appreciated,” he said finally, quietly. Harry looked back at the gossiping biddies and shot them a glare. They paused in shock for a moment, before returning to their clucking, more furious now than ever. “Master,” Tom said to Harry, evidently seeing his ire, “It’s not worth it. In the end, I _am_ a slave, and if in public, I’m expected to either kneel or stand. In the absence of any specific command, I chose to stand.” Harry eyed him, unsure where this suddenly amenable Tom had come from. The man noticed him looking and shrugged slightly. “We’re in public, master,” he reminded Harry. Maybe that explained it, then.

“Yeah, let’s go home,” Harry told him, feeling suddenly exhausted. Somehow, seeing Tom back to normal made him feel all the worry that he hadn’t realised had been weighing him down. Surely he couldn’t be getting to like _Voldemort,_ could he?

The thought consumed him throughout the walk to the entrance, Tom walking the requisite pace behind him. Could he be starting to actually _like_ Tom? He certainly found the man attractive, but _like_? He’d felt protective of Tom straight after the accident, and then when the healer had been refusing to treat him. He’d missed the man while he’d been gone for more than what he did in the house. And now…he still liked the idea of Tom kneeling to him and obeying his orders, but anyone else…? He’d wanted to snap at the old biddies for thinking that they had any right to command Tom in the slightest. Harry had fought for the right, had bled for it; no one else was allowed to.

And maybe it was also in part that Tom was now under his care, completely helpless to his orders. If he’d ever doubted that the collar stopped Tom from casting magic, they were wiped away by Saturday’s events – if Tom had had any other option, Harry seriously doubted he would have used his own body to stop what he had to have known was a powerful curse.

“Master?” Tom asked. Harry snapped back to awareness. They were standing in Grimmauld Place, lingering in the entranceway while Harry had been lost in thought. He vaguely remembered apparating them, and suddenly felt thankful that he hadn’t splinched either of them in their distraction. At least, he didn’t think he had. Turning, he scrutinised Tom. No, he looked intact.

“Are you OK?” Harry checked, just in case there was some injury under his clothes which he couldn’t see. The man looked at him quizzically, as if wondering why his master was so concerned.

“Thanks to you, master, yes.” Harry looked away uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

“Good, then,” he said awkwardly. There were a few moments of silence before Tom broke it once again.

“Would you like me to make dinner, master?”

“No, don’t worry about it. You take it easy this evening. Get a book and read by the fire, or something,” he suggested. “I’ll make dinner tonight.”

“Thank you, master,” was the response before Tom passed him to go upstairs. Breathing in and out slowly, Harry decided to get started on the meal.

XXX

After all the events of the last three days, Tom didn’t really feel up to reading anything particularly strenuous. In the end, he just chose a novel he’d found in the library which looked quite good, and as his master had suggested, went to read by the sitting room. He sat in a chair by the fire at first, but found that the material against his back irritated him too much – newly-grown flesh was always a bit sensitive. Instead, he decided to lie on his stomach down on the rug in front of the fire. It was extra cushioned to make floo calls more comfortable, but it worked well for lying down and reading as well.

A few minutes later, he decided to take his shirt off too – even that material was annoying. Besides, the warmth of the fire felt nice against his skin. After a while, he even started to feel a little sleepy. Putting the book down, he folded his arms and rested his head on them.

At some point, he woke. He was disorientated at first, his gaze falling on Harry in the doorway. The man was looking at him, his mouth slightly ajar, hunger in his eyes. Suddenly feeling chilled despite the heat of the fire, Tom opened his eyes wider and felt his body tense. His master abruptly jerked his eyes away and cleared his throat.

“Supper’s ready,” he muttered, turning away. Tom slowly stood up, putting his shirt back on. He felt unsettled at the confirmation of his previous suspicion that his master found him attractive. People finding him attractive hadn’t been unusual, not before his looks had been blurred by delving deeply into the Dark Arts, at least. And he’d used it, quite effectively really. This…this was different.

Oh, Tom could acknowledge that Harry was good-looking, in fact in a different situation, he might be down-right delectable. Those clear green eyes, plush lips and the kind of hair that would be so easy to slide a hand through and grip tightly to pull in for a kiss… But this was not a normal situation. Here, Tom couldn’t forget that Harry wasn’t just some attractive man; he was Tom’s master. As such, he didn’t have to seduce, he didn’t have to convince, all he had to do was order and _take_.

What Tom had seen so far of Harry’s character seemed to indicate that he wouldn’t do that, but the key word was ‘wouldn’t’. Not ‘couldn’t’, and his sentence wasn’t a quick one which would be up before Harry had got past whatever moral qualms he no doubt had about taking what was there in front of him... Well, hopefully he’d be out of here before he had to test how long Harry’s resolve would last. Especially if he realised that Tom might find him attractive in return – maybe he would convince himself that he was just being proactive, that Tom really _did_ want it. Tom shuddered in horror. No. It could never work between them. Not like this, anyway.

Harry avoided his eyes, already at the table eating. It was some sort of spaghetti with a creamy sauce dotted with pieces of bacon and onion. Tom took a bite. Oh! That was good. He accidentally let out a noise of appreciation that almost sounded like a moan. Suddenly realising what he’d done, he flashed a horrified look at his master. Harry was sitting there, still steadily trying not to make eye contact, but a small blush was rising on his cheeks. Hell! And there he had been, deciding that encouraging his master’s interest in any sort of way was dangerous! The tension between them rose. Tom desperately searched for some topic to use to cut it.

“Master,” he started finally, moderating his voice to not reveal any of the fear he was currently feeling at the idea of being…being…made to assume the role slaves were commonly required to take. “What is this? The recipe, I mean.”

“Oh, this?” Harry sounded relieved to have something different to talk about than the tension that was so thick between them it could be cut with a knife. “It’s Spaghetti Carbonara. I got it from that book.” So saying, he jerked his thumb towards a book on the shelf that Tom knew very well. Or at least, he knew _one_ recipe in it very well. Given their current levels of relative amicability, Tom decided to ask a question which had been bugging him for a while.

“I have a question, master,” he began, looking at Harry for a cue to continue. Harry looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since he’d seen Tom half-naked. The blush had gone, Tom was relieved to see.

“Sure, go ahead,” Harry said curiously.

“When I first came here, I became…practised at a particular recipe…” he trailed off, looking for any acknowledgment in the man sitting across the table from him. Instead, blank incomprehension met his eyes.

“Did you?” Harry asked blankly. Well, that probably answered his question, but he decided to ask it anyway.

“Did you never realise that I only made Spaghetti Bolognaise for the first two weeks?” Tom asked tentatively. Harry stared at him.

“…No?” he responded. Tom managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes with only a great amount of effort. “Why did you do that?” OK, that was it. The eye roll was happening. As expected, his collar shocked him briefly for the ‘disrespectful behaviour’, but he couldn’t care less.

“I was trying to annoy you,” he admitted in exasperation. “I eventually gave up because you didn’t seem to notice and I was getting bored of Spaghetti Bolognaise.” There was a pause where Harry looked at him in amusement.

“Well, that failed miserably, then,” he remarked. Tom glared at him futilely, wondering if throwing a piece of spaghetti at his master would count as an attack. Deciding not to risk it, he grumpily returned to his meal. Honestly! What he put up with sometimes. How someone could be so perceptive at times yet so dense at others….

When he realised that he had thought that with a tinge of fondness, he mentally threw up his hands and cursed the whole situation to the infernal hells.

XXX

“Potter.” Harry turned at the sound of his name to see Robards striding down the corridor towards him. He was just leaving the classroom with the rest of the Auror recruits, all of them hungry for lunch after the heavy morning of lectures.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, signalling Neville to go on without him when he saw his friend pause.

“Come with me. I need to have a word.” Harry agreed, all the while wondering what the ‘word’ would be about. Robards’ tone hadn’t given anything away. He hoped he wasn’t in trouble for anything in the programme… Racking his brains, he decided he couldn’t think of anything that would be a problem – he hadn’t had any problems with the other recruits, and he hadn’t failed any assignments.

Entering Robards’ office, the Head Auror gestured for him to sit down.

“I’ve called you in about that incident with your slave on Saturday.”

“Tom didn’t do anything wrong –“ Harry started hotly, but he cut himself off when Robards raised a hand.

“I know that, Potter,” he said, slightly impatiently. “It’s about the man who attacked. I need to know whether you intend to press charges on his attempted attack on you.” Harry frowned.

“On me? What about his attack on Tom?” The man looked at him pointedly.

“Your slave falls under laws regarding property. You should know what that means by now.” Harry did.

“Laws on property state that no damage to property below the value of ten thousand galleons is prosecutable, however the owner of the property can demand compensation for any loss of income or repair charges paid,” he stated. The Head Auror nodded. “But Tom technically doesn’t have a value,” Harry protested after a moment of thought. “Kingsley gave him to me.” Robards shrugged.

“And debating that point could lead to years of wasted lawyers’ fees and no real settlement. Of course, you’re at liberty to do so, but I wouldn’t suggest it.” Harry reluctantly agreed. The case studies they’d looked at so far hadn’t been promising in terms of results in similar situations. That said, he hated that a human being was being classed as property to the extent that he _could have died_ and _still_ the only action that would be able to be taken would be ‘compensation for damages’. And for some reason, it felt even worse that the human being in question was _Tom_. Probably because he’d done it to save Harry’s life. 

“Then yes, I want to press charges for attempted murder,” Harry stated coldly. Robards nodded steadily.

“In which case, here are three cards of prosecutors you could use. They’re all good at their jobs, but it’s up to you which ones you choose.” He handed three cards over. Harry tucked them into his pocket without looking at them.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Not a problem, Potter.” A small smile touched the corners of his lips. “I hear you caught up well in your studies and are one of the best in the class.” Harry looked down bashfully, enjoying the compliment; but at the same time, the inferiority complex drummed into him by the Dursleys raised its head to say he didn’t deserve it. He was determined to beat that, though, so just accepted the praise gracefully. Robards hesitated, but then went on. “That incident…did you order your slave to protect you or…?” Harry shook his head.

“No,” he said honestly. “I had no idea he was going to do that. Still don’t know why, as a matter of fact. He says…well, he says it was self-preservation, but…it was a lot of risk to take for self-preservation.” he admitted. Robards looked at him seriously for a moment.

“Clearly, whatever you’re doing to engender loyalty within him is working. Keep on like that – if more people could engage positively with their slaves, our society would be a lot better once they are released.” Harry shrugged helplessly.

“I just…treat him like he’s human. Because he is – doesn’t matter what the law says.” Then, worried he’d said too much – Aurors were supposed to uphold the law, after all – Harry looked up at Robards. What met his eyes wasn’t disapproval, in fact it was the opposite.

“I hope you continue to think like that, Potter,” the Head Auror said softly. “It may not be popular, but then the job of an Auror is not about being popular – it’s about upholding truth and justice.” Then, snapping back to his usual stern countenance, he nodded sharply and pointed at the door.

“Now get out of my office,” he ordered. Harry smiled at him, stood up and went for lunch.

XXX

Tom was on his knees, scrubbing the floor in the kitchen. Somehow, even though he cleaned up after himself every evening, it still got in a right state. After months of the same monotonous chores, Tom had got to the point where he didn’t really have to think about what he was doing, and had taken to musing over his research and turning the calculations over in his mind while he accomplished the cleaning of the day. That or other thoughts, which often led him in uncomfortable directions. He preferred thinking about his freedom. At least any type of thought process took some of the boredom out of the tedious tasks.

Absently, he heard a whoosh from another room, but he was too concerned with his thought processes to interpret the sound. Therefore, when a voice spoke to him from the doorway, he almost jumped out of his skin.

“Where’s Harry?” He twisted around to spot his master’s red-headed sidekick. Uncomfortable being on his knees in front of this man, Tom quickly got to his feet. Crossing his arms, he was nonetheless aware that he hardly cut an intimidating figure: wet knees from the floor, sweat dripping down his forehead, face red from exertion.

“He’s not here,” Tom answered shortly. The red-head glared at him.

“I can _see_ that. Where is he?” Tom eyed him, weighing up whether to answer or not. This man wasn’t his master – as long as he wasn’t directly disrespectful, he shouldn’t be punished. As such, he fixed his eyes to one side of the red-head, rather than either looking at him directly or looking down.

“Out,” was his reply. The man sighed in frustration.

“Merlin, I don’t know how Harry deals with you!”

“He’s my master,” Tom replied snidely. “He doesn’t _have_ to ‘deal with me’.” There was a pause and Tom realised with horror that the blood traitor was looking at him thoughtfully.

“You know, I’d never have thought that you’d willingly acknowledge him as your master, not considering the history between you two.” Tom forced himself not to react. Actually…the red-head had a point, much as Tom hated to admit it. A couple of months ago he _wouldn’t_ have acknowledged it without the collar forcing him. What had changed? “Look,” the red-head continued. “I just want to give Harry a message.”

“You couldn’t send an owl?” Tom pointed out with disdain. The man shuffled slightly.

“I’d rather not. Just…when he comes home, tell him to floo me. Alright?” Tom considered it.

“Fine,” he replied eventually, thinking privately that he _would_ , but only because he was pretty sure that if he didn’t, his master would find out and then he’d be in trouble. Not because he was inclined to do this…man any favours.

“OK. Good.” The red-head turned to leave, but then paused. Tom mentally rolled his eyes. What now? “Um, you know that thing you did for Harry a week or so ago?”

“Jumping in front of a curse for him, yes, I _vaguely_ recall it,” Tom stated flatly.

“Yeah, that. It’s just…we appreciate it, OK. Harry’s friends, that is. And, well, I never thought I might say it to Voldemort but…thank you.” This time, Tom did meet his eyes with a disbelieving gaze. Had he actually…Yes. Yes, he had, and his expression _looked_ sincere. Not sure what to say, Tom just nodded once. The Weasley boy nodded awkwardly in return and then disappeared out of the kitchen.

Tom waited until he heard the floo activate again before returning to his chores, shaking his head. A Weasley _thanking_ him? Would wonders never cease?

XXX

Harry got home feeling a lot better than he had at lunchtime. Fortunately, they’d had practical classes that afternoon, so the anger he’d felt about the way slaves were considered in the Wizarding world had largely been used up. It helped, too, that instead of using the whole lunch break to eat lunch, he’d just grabbed a sandwich from a canteen, and then had apparated over to one of the law firms. He’d chosen it because one of the partners was Patil, and he at least had a connection to them through his housemate Parvati.

They’d managed to fit a conversation with him in immediately, probably because of his fame, Harry thought guiltily. Frankly, though, he didn’t mind in this case – it wasn’t so much about justice for himself; it was more about justice for Tom, though of course the actual charges would be about aiming a blasting curse towards Harry, given the way the laws considered slaves.

He’d been assured that they had a good case, assuming they could get sufficient witnesses involved. The evidence was rather cut and dry – the man, whoever he was, had aimed a powerful blasting curse at Harry who was completely unaware of being targeted. That it hadn’t hit the intended target was, in a way, immaterial except that it was _attempted_ murder charges rather than grievous bodily harm charges or, worse, actual murder charges. Harry had, of course, named Neville and Luna as key witnesses, as well as mentioning that Florean Fortescue might have seen something. Not to mention the Aurors who had arrived on the scene and took the man – and his wand – into custody. Naturally, Tom, as a slave, wouldn’t be eligible to testify.

Actually, that was one thing Harry could see the reasoning for. With the collar, the master could order their slave to say whatever they wanted along with denying all use of truth serums or memories. But nonetheless, the lawyer had told him that it was likely this wouldn’t even go to court – with the combination of the evidence, Harry being who he was, and his use of their reputable law firm, it was likely the attacker’s lawyers would approach Jones, Briggs and Patil about a plea bargain.

At this point, Harry wasn’t sure whether he would accept it or force the matter to go to court. He guessed he would see what they suggested. Apparently the highest punishment they could hope for would be ten years in Azkaban. A miniscule sentence, of course, compared to the consequences of what might have happened, but something, nonetheless.

Harry had left the lawyers feeling confident in their ability to prosecute the case and a lot more settled. The practicals had only helped that. He wasn’t sure whether to mention it to Tom. Did it really matter? Maybe he should just tell the man when the sentence was pronounced…But would he prefer to know that it was being dealt with?

Following his nose, he went into the kitchen. Good timing! Tom was just dishing up.

“Master,” greeted Tom neutrally, bowing his head slightly. “Your friend visited earlier. I believe he wants to speak to you.” Harry frowned.

“My friend? Which one?”

“The red-head.” Harry’s eyebrows shot up.

“Ron?” Tom nodded. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, only that he would like you to floo him.”

“Did he say it was urgent,” Harry clarified, already starting to turn towards the sitting room.

“No, master.” Harry hesitated. Surely Ron would have made it clear if it was urgent…it could probably wait until after dinner? After everything that had happened in the day, he was pretty hungry. Not to forget that he’d only had a small sandwich for lunch, and a strenuous afternoon. Making up his mind, he turned back and sat down.

“Smells good,” Harry said, sniffing appreciatively. “What is it?” Tom raised an eyebrow at him.

“…stew, master,” he replied, neutrally.

“What kind of stew?” Harry asked.

“Good stew,” was the reply, the barest hint of mockery in it. Harry couldn’t help rolling his eyes and grinning.

“Fine, don’t tell me then. Just give it here – I’m starving!” Tom eyed him, looking slightly concerned that his master might be going a bit loopy as he handed the plate over. “I’m not crazy, I swear,” Harry told him, starting to dig in. Mm, it tasted as good as it had smelled... “It’s just…It’s been a bit of a…an interesting day.”

“Do you want to talk about it, master?” offered Tom unexpectedly. Harry considered the question. Yeah, he’d like to talk about it, but should he…? In the end, he had chosen to be a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin, so he decided to follow house tradition and jump in head first.

“I…Robards approached me at lunch time. He…he wanted to talk about Saturday,” Harry gave Tom a pointed look, and saw when it was received by the way his expression shuttered and his eyes lowered to the table.

“I see.”

“He wanted to know whether I was going to press charges against the man who attacked us.” He paused to gauge Tom’s reaction, but nothing was revealed, so he just decided to continue. “I said I was. Unfortunately, I can’t really get him on what he did to you, because of the laws on slavery, but I’m going to press attempted murder charges.”

“That sounds sensible. If you tried to prosecute him based on what happened to me, I suspect you would be offered damages and nothing else,” Tom replied, no hint of anger in his voice. Harry stared at him.

“Aren’t you angry?”

“Why would I be angry, master?” Tom asked, as if it was a reasonable question. Harry just shook his head, frowning at him.

“You’ve just said that you know that your _life_ is worth only a handful of galleons in the eyes of the law – doesn’t that make you angry? Merlin knows, _I_ was fuming in Robards’ office about it!” Tom was still for a moment before sighing, shrugging slightly and meeting Harry’s eyes.

“Why should I be any angrier about this than anything else about my current situation? I’m trapped with the man who used to be my prophesised vanquisher, forced to obey every command unless I want to be in pain constantly. I cannot leave the house without permission, I cannot _eat_ without permission. I cannot use my magic at my will, but only at yours. I was _given_ to you like an unwanted parcel. Why would I be any angrier at the reminder that in the eyes of the Wizarding world, I am considered as of no more value than a cupboard or the table at which we sit? I am reminded of my slavery every minute of the day as it is.” Harry closed his mouth, realising he was gaping.

For some reason, hearing those words had really _hurt_. Why, he didn’t know. Why should he care what Tom thought? It wasn’t like the man had said anything that was untrue, was it?

It was probably Harry’s fault – he had taken Tom’s recent actions as meaning that they were reaching some kind of understanding. But Tom had said it himself – he’d been aiming for self-preservation. Why did Harry keep looking for an explanation beyond that? Was it because that’s what he wanted to see?

He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore and stood up.

“I’m going to Ron’s,” he muttered.

“Master…” Tom started, but trailed off without continuing. Harry wasn’t really very interested in what he had to say at that point. He just shook his head sharply before leaving the room.

XXX

Tom stared at where Harry had been sitting until his abrupt exit? What had he said? Was Harry upset that he wasn’t upset? Was that a thing? Sighing, he decided to finish his own food, at least. He supposed he should consider himself fortunate that, although he required permission to eat, at least he _had_ it.

Once he’d cleaned his plate, remarking to himself that he probably should have used a few more spices to really bring out the flavour of the lamb, he hesitated over what to do with Harry’s half-finished food. Had he had his magic, he would have just cast a stasis charm over it and left it as is. Without his magic… He didn’t want to just put it in the bin – that was a waste of good food, and Tom abhorred waste, always had.

Perhaps it had been drummed into him after years at the orphanage where he had only had enough to keep him alive, never enough to satiate him. Tom wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t grown up there where not only food and warmth was lacking but love and affection as well. Would he have still grown up with this never-ending desire, this instinct to take as much as he could get and then take more; to hoard what he had as jealously as a dragon even while coveting what others possessed?

Even now where he could be argued to own _nothing_ , not even his own body, he hoarded his books, hiding them where his master wouldn’t find them unless he made an effort. He hid his mind, his emotions, allowing only glimpses of what really lay below the surface. And more than that, he jealously guarded his secret hope of being free, the flame that burned within his chest and kept him going even through the times when he wondered whether there was anything of himself left within this shell.

But that was for the dark of night, thoughts to ponder when he awoke from a nightmare and couldn’t sleep, bathed in his own sweat. For now…He decided to leave the plate on the table. The worst that would happen is Harry would come back and decide to punish him somehow, but then any of Tom’s choices could lead to that so…

He decided to go upstairs and work on his research, but soon found that he couldn’t concentrate. Within a couple of hours, he’d given up in disgust. He was too concerned about what mood Harry would be in when he came home to pay proper attention to what he was doing; with the complexity of his project, he couldn’t risk making an error. If he misunderstood even one line of calculations, he’d end up wasting a lot of time in the future.

Instead, taking a book on Wizarding law, he went downstairs to the sitting room. It was odd being here without his master, and he made sure not to lie in his normal position – he’d risk being stepped on or kicked when Harry came through otherwise. For some reason, despite technically being able to use the chairs…he found he didn’t want to. It just felt…wrong. He was used to being here with Harry and lounging on the soft carpet in front of the fireplace, reading a book, while Harry flipped pages and scratched on parchment with his quill.

He’d been reading for a while when the floo flared. Quickly drawing his legs up so he was definitely out of the line of fire, he watched through hooded eyes as his master stumbled out. Harry sighed, brushed himself off and ran a hand through his hair. Tom must have made some sort of movement that caught his attention, because he suddenly whirled around, wand out.

Tom looked at the point of the wand aiming at him, wondering if he should feel frightened. Most slaves in his position would, he imagined. But strangely…he didn’t. Maybe it was because so far, Harry hadn’t actually cast a single spell at him to harm him. Unless one considered the _aguamenti_ which had woken him up that one time, that is. Sure enough, his strange faith was rewarded when his master let out a shaky breath and lowered his wand, tucking it back into his arm holster.

“You startled me,” he murmured, then tilted his head to one side, frowning. “What are you doing there?” Tom lifted the book he was reading as evidence.

“Reading, master. Looking at laws around attempted murder charges.” Harry’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“You’re researching the case?” Tom shrugged.

“I thought I might as well make myself useful.” The surprise didn’t disappear even when Harry hummed in acknowledgement. “Master…” Tom started, then trailed off again. He’d thought through this moment several times, but each time had phrased his words differently. He still didn’t know which ones to use. “I…I didn’t mean to imply with my words earlier that I am… _ungrateful_ for the way you have treated me. Believe you me; I am aware that my circumstances could be a lot worse. It’s just-“ He was cut off by Harry raising a hand and shaking his head.

“Tom, don’t worry about it. I was just…” he shrugged. “I suppose I thought things were different than they really are. It’s me, not you. Just…I don’t want to talk about it anymore tonight, OK?” Tom nodded silently. Fine. Tom would be more than happy to avoid talking about _feelings_ or his own slavery. He couldn’t help but feel a pang inside him at the…defeated tone in Harry’s voice, though. It just sounded _wrong_.

“What did you do with the food?” Harry asked, his tone forcibly bright. “I hope you didn’t throw it away,” he warned more seriously. Tom wondered idly whether the impact of Harry’s childhood had engendered a similar loathing to his own of waste and a desperate possessiveness over those he considered _his_.

“I left it on the table, master,” he replied, watching carefully to check that his master’s reaction wasn’t negative. Not that he could do anything about it if it was, but he’d rather have the fore-warning. Harry, however, just nodded and walked towards the doorway, throwing an absent-minded ‘thanks’ over his shoulder.

Tom returned to his reading, taking careful mental note of any information which might be useful to know in the case of their attacker. 

XXX

Harry growled as he reached for another piece of parchment, only to find that the drawer was empty. He was _almost finished_.

“Tom!” he called, his voice irritated. A few minutes later, the man appeared in the doorway and kneeled, his expression as irritated as Harry felt.

“Yes, master?”

“Do you know if we have any more parchment? I’ve run out.” Tom’s frown deepened

“I think there’s some in the library, but not much,” he responded.

“Can you get it for me, please?” Tom glared at him.

“I’m not a house-elf,” he told Harry grumpily. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“No, but you are my _slave_.” He waited a few moments, but when Tom didn’t move, he sighed, irritated even further. “Tom, just go and get the parchment. Now.” He didn’t shout, didn’t even raise his voice, but there was steel to his tone. With a final glare, Tom turned around and disappeared. A few minutes later he reappeared, a small sheaf of parchment in his hand. He dumped them on the table roughly.

“Here, _master,”_ he spat, before an expression of pain shot across his face. “Can I get you _anything else_?” he seethed. Harry eyed him. This seemed somewhat…disproportionate. What had got into Tom all of a sudden?

“Tom, are you OK?” he asked warily, knowing he’d probably get a nasty response, but figured he should try at the least. As half-expected, he saw the anger flare higher in his slave’s eyes and his lips twist into a snarl. Then, like a shutter coming down, they blanked and became carefully neutral.

“Of course, master,” Tom intoned flatly. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Harry wasn’t sure how to respond. Frankly, there were many reasons for why Tom might be angry, but he hesitated to bring any of them up, for fear of rocking the boat again. His thoughts were interrupted. “If that’s everything, may I go back to what I was doing?” Tom asked, still that deceptive politeness.

“Sure,” Harry agreed, watching him go. Then, shaking his slave’s odd behaviour out of his head, he returned to his studies.

XXX

Scrivener’s Supplies was difficult to move in, and especially difficult to move past people in – the stacks were piled precariously high with parchment of different grades and qualities, quills, ink pots and all the other miscellaneous expected by a shop that advertised itself as a scrivener’s one-stop shop for their general supplies. The stacks were both so precarious and so closely packed into the limited area that every time Tom passed between two of them, he was worried he would accidentally brush one of the sheets and send the whole lot tumbling down. If he caused a single stack to topple, it would probably cause an avalanche which would bury them all.

He hadn’t been surprised when Harry had decided to visit the place. He’d been complaining for the past three weeks that he was running low on parchment, not to mention using Tom as a gofer that one time. That had been particularly irritating since it had completely disrupted his thought process with his research. An added annoyance there had of course been that having given his master _his_ supply of parchment, he had been unable to take his _own_ notes for the past few days. When one considered the number of assignments Harry had to complete every week, however, not to mention all the notes he penned, it wasn’t a shock that he would need to resupply at some point, and this was the first time he had revisited Diagon since that incident a few weeks ago.

True to his request, Harry had invited him to join the trip since he was headed to somewhere other than Hogwarts, the Ministry or one of his friends’ houses. Unfortunately, he hadn’t granted Tom access to defensive magic. He hadn’t out-ruled it as a possibility, though; he’d simply said he wanted to think about it for a bit longer first.

Tom wasn’t sure why it was so important to him that Harry _did_ give him access to his magic for defensive purposes. After all, it wasn’t like it would help him escape his collar – he was pretty certain that nothing which would break the collar’s enchantment would be possibly classed as _defensive_. Nor would he be able to use it to protect _himself_. A slave using magic on a free person because of his or her actions was simply not accepted by all laws which governed behaviour of slaves. No, it could only be to protect _his master_. So why did he want it so much? Well, Tom supposed that it was logical to prefer a magical shield over a _body_ shield, but he wasn’t sure that was the full reason. His mind shied away, however, from truly naming his motivation to ensure he had as much facility to protect his master as he could.

A man came towards him, so he shifted as much out of the way as possible. Unfortunately, it was impossible to squeeze out of the passageway completely, as the stacks were so closely packed. As the man went past, he brushed very slightly against Tom. In the blink of an eye, he turned on Tom and struck him on the side of his head.

“Stupid Death Eater scum,” he snarled as Tom staggered away, one hand going up to his suddenly throbbing ear. He put out a hand to stop himself, but his heart thumped in horror as it crashed into one of the piles. Both he and the man watched with wide eyes as the pile started swaying, first away, and then towards them. Just as it appeared it was about to cover them both in a flurry of parchment, it stabilised and the top sheets which had started drifting down, flew back up to their original spots.

Tom looked towards the end of the corridor of stacks to see his master standing there, wand out, a dark look on his face. Something inside Tom flinched at the thought that he’d misstepped. After all, Harry had made it plain more than once that if he behaved badly when out in public, he _would_ be punished. But Tom wasn’t sure what he should have done to avoid this.

“What do you think you are doing?” Harry demanded, his voice and eyes cold.

“Master, I,” Tom started, not sure what he was going to say. Harry’s eyes flashed towards him, cutting like a knife.

“Not you,” Harry said sharply. “Come here.” Tom hurried to obey, half-expecting to receive more pain as soon as he got within arm’s reach, either another blow or perhaps the collar’s trigger word, but instead, Harry pulled him by the arm until he was behind his master. Harry then looked at the man still standing a few feet away, his wand still in his hand, though not pointing at anyone right then. “What do you think you were doing, hitting my slave?” he demanded again.

“You’re its master?” the man sneered.

“I am,” acknowledged Harry steadily, his voice still like ice.

“Then I expect you’ll be punishing it for accosting an upstanding citizen like myself.”

“Accosting?” Tom’s master replied, his voice revealing his incredulity, though he politely declined to comment on the ‘upstanding citizen’ part of it. “He did his best to get out of your way – he’s not to blame for the sheer lack of space in this shop. And frankly,” he continued, casting a glance at Tom’s ear which was definitely feeling overly hot and throbbing, “I think you’ve already punished him enough for an accidental touch.” The man now scowled angrily at him.

“Those… _monsters_ deserve everything they get! With all the people they’ve hurt and killed, they shouldn’t even be _able_ to walk among normal people!” Harry looked at him for a moment, then replied calmly. “Fortunately for us all, _you_ are not the one making the decisions. He is my slave; I will decide what he deserves. Come, Tom,” he instructed and turned around, starting to move away. Tom followed. He longed to cast some sort of mocking glance at the man, but decided that it would ruin the moment. The man shouted after them.

“If you won’t punish it, I’ll go to the Ministry and report you.” Harry paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“Go ahead,” he challenged. “My memories will prove that my slave behaved correctly in the circumstances. They will also prove that you attempted to damage my property unlawfully. If you want to go down that route, be my guest.” When the man didn’t respond but just stared angrily at him, Harry nodded. “That’s what I thought.” Turning around, he exited the shop, Tom following.

Getting home, Tom realised Harry hadn’t actually bought anything.

“Master, I’m sorry you didn’t get the supplies you needed,” he said, hoping that if Harry _was_ inclined to punish him for making his shopping trip futile, the apology as a preface might soften it. Harry turned to him, a wry quirk at the corner of his lips.

“It’s OK. I identified what I needed in the shop – I’ll send an owl order for the actual items. I was just coming to get you anyway so we could pay and then leave.”

“So…” Tom started hesitantly. “You’re not angry?”

“With you?” Tom nodded mutely. “No, of course not. As I said to the man, you behaved correctly in the situation. His reaction was unwarranted and unwelcome.” Harry sighed. “Look, Tom, I’m a straightforward guy at the end of the day. You be straight with me, and I’ll be straight with you. As long as you are doing your best to make our lives together as easy as possible, I will do the same. I’m your master and you’re my slave, that’s true no matter how much either of us may not want it to be. But, as long as you recognise that, and don’t keep pushing me, I don’t see why we can’t coexist perfectly well. And as your master, if I think people are taking advantage of the fact that you can’t fight back, I’ll defend you.”

“And the Ministry, master?” Tom asked thoughtfully. Harry looked at him steadily.

“Well it depends – if you deserve whatever the Ministry says, I’ll probably go along with it. If you don’t…well, we’ll see how much influence the Man-who-Conquered really has, I guess.” Tom nodded in acknowledgement. “Come here a moment,” Harry ordered him suddenly, Tom obeyed, coming within arms' length again of his master, but feeling a lot less concerned than the previous time. Harry pointed his wand at Tom’s throbbing ear and muttered a healing spell. In a few moments, his ear was back to normal.

“Thank you, master,” Tom murmured, taking a step away. After silence pervaded the space for a few moments, he continued. “If we’re not going out again, master, may I be excused? I have cleaning to do.”

“Sure, but one thing more, Tom.” He looked into Tom’s red eyes with a considering gaze. “I was quite impressed by how you comported yourself with the man. You could have tried to defend yourself, or used your sharp tongue to attack verbally, but you didn’t. I was impressed. As a result, you have permission to use defensive magic while we are out together in a public venue, as long as there is no other option which would be equally as or more effective.” Tom’s breath caught in his chest. “And I shouldn’t need to say this, but I will – you may not cast magic to kill or seriously injure another person at all, and causing any other injury, however small should always be a last resort. In fact, only use magic which will not even _risk_ hurting anyone else unless someone is at imminent risk of death. Understood?”

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged. He hesitated, but felt it should be said. “Thank you, master.” Harry never released Tom’s gaze, but he nodded very slightly. Then, feeling like there was too much tension in the moment, Tom quickly turned and went to continue his daily chores, his mind spinning with thoughts and questions.

XXX

Harry came home in a bad mood. He swept into the kitchen where Tom was preparing dinner and cast a stasis charm on the food.

“Master, what…?” asked his slave in confusion, flinching back from the stove which had suddenly stopped doing anything. Harry didn’t bother to explain himself, merely grabbed Tom’s wand from the cupboard, and jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen door. When he reached it without noticing Tom following, he barked out a sharp command.

“Come.” Tom came. Harry made his way up to the second floor which housed the duelling room. Entering, he tossed Tom’s wand to him. “Same rules as always. Let’s duel, kitten.” The other man was taken off guard as Harry started shooting spells at him, but he recovered admirably quickly.

Soon, they were trading volleys of Hogwarts level spells. Harry started throwing in a few of the ones he had been learning in the Auror training, figuring Tom could handle it, even if he was restricted to lower level spells. He could definitely tell the difference the Aurors had made to his ability to cast. They had only really started learning spell chains, but the difference it made to the speed of casting was tremendous.

With Harry’s anger giving him a slight edge, and Tom as restricted as he was, they were fairly evenly matched. Tom was still the superior caster, of course, but Harry’s spells were quick and powerful and Tom had to make sure none of them hit, which slowed him down slightly. When Harry’s anger had run its course, he called an end to the duel, even if neither of them had won.

“Stop!” Tom stopped dead, letting the spell he was casting fizzle out at the end of his wand. Harry wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve and felt relaxed for the first time in hours. Conjuring a chair near the wall, he slumped into it, his true exhaustion making itself known now he had stopped moving: it had been a hell of a day. Tom disappeared from the room. Harry grunted when he realised. He guessed he should have probably taken the wand from him before he left, but never mind – it wasn’t like the man was allowed to use it, after all. When a glass of water appeared in his vision, he jerked back in surprise.

“I thought you might be thirsty, master,” was Tom’s explanation. Harry eyed him suspiciously – it wasn’t like Tom to be helpful without being asked, after all… Nevertheless, he took the glass and drank from it – he figured that the collar would prevent his slave from poisoning his master if that was Tom’s plan. When all he tasted was cool, refreshing water, he felt validated in his belief.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. Tom settled down in front of Harry on his knees.

“You seemed angry when you came home, master. Would you like to talk about it?” Harry eyed him.

“You’re not going to like it,” he warned. _He_ didn’t like it. Tom’s expression didn’t change from its smooth neutrality. Harry sighed. “Robards spoke to me at work today. We’re invited to the Ministry New Year’s Ball.”

“We, master?” clarified Tom, his voice not revealing what he thought of that. Harry nodded.

“We,” he repeated, grimly. Tom was silent for a few moments, looking away. When he met Harry’s eyes, his crimson gaze was full of calculation.

“It’s a publicity stunt, isn’t it?”

“Basically,” Harry agreed with a groan. “The ‘Man-who-Conquered’ being the face of the new Ministry, looking towards a brighter futures, yadda, yadda.”

“And behind the ‘Man-who-Conquered’, one of the subjugated,” murmured Tom. “Physical proof of how much potential enemies stand to lose by going against you, and by dint of your tacit support of the Ministry, them.” Harry looked at him with a rueful look on his face.

“You know, you’re probably absolutely right. No wonder Robards was so emphatic about wanting you there.” He sighed again, heavily. “And it’s not like I can refuse to go, is it?” He looked hopefully at Tom as if expecting the man to pull a reasonable excuse out of his hat to prove him wrong. Instead, the man shrugged, looking away.

“Technically, you _could_ refuse, master, but it would probably have significant effects on your future at the Ministry. No doubt, as the biggest event at the Ministry since the end of the war, this ball is going to be used to set the tone of the Ministry’s public relations for years, if not decades to come. If you’re not there, you’ll be extremely conspicuous by your absence.”

“Yeah,” said Harry dolefully. “That’s what I thought.” He sighed once more, but then had a thought. “I suppose _you_ don’t have to go. I mean, I get the effect they’re trying to go for, sure, but I don’t see any reason why I need to force you to attend when they haven’t even _explained_ why it’s important that you go.” Tom looked back at him, and the warmth in his eyes took Harry aback. It wasn’t like they were shining with _affection_ or anything, but the fact that they were showing an emotion that wasn’t either negative or careful neutrality was…a first, Harry thought.

“Thank you for your consideration, master,” Tom said, his voice having a note of warmth that was also obvious by the sheer novelty of it. “But I suspect that your superiors would be irate with you should you arrive without me in tow.”

“But imagine it,” Harry urged, not quite sure why he was trying to talk Tom _out_ of going, when part of his bad mood when coming back had been because he had been contemplating talking Tom _in_ to agreeing to come without having to resort to ordering him. “All of those people, having to be a slave in front of them. It’ll be worse than that dinner with Snape!” The glare that Tom shot him at mentioning the ‘S’ word was at the same time reassuring and upsetting. Reassuring in that this strangely pleasant Tom was _not_ what Harry was used to; upsetting because Harry actually _liked_ being able to have a conversation with his slave without it degenerating into negativity.

“Nothing could be worse than that dinner,” Tom informed him icily. Then he thawed a little. “That said, I understand your concerns. You do not need to worry that I will embarrass you in front of your colleagues. I promise, I shall be on my best behaviour,” he finished, a wry twist to his lips. Harry frowned at him in confusion.

“But…why? Why put yourself through that? I mean, I promise, if you say you don’t want to go, I won’t force you – Merlin knows I wish _I_ didn’t have to go. And I wouldn’t, if it wasn’t so important. But this won’t benefit _you_.” Tom shrugged.

“Some might say that the slave being of benefit to the master is, in fact, their raison d’être.” Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, but you’re not usually ‘some’,” he remarked wryly. “I want to know what you get out of this.” Tom looked back at him and there was a hint of humour in his eyes.

“Fine, master. I’m a slave, I’ve come to recognise that.” Harry couldn’t help from adding an unspoken ‘ _unless you find a way to escape, that is’_ in his thoughts. “As a slave, it behoves me to make sure my master is happy, if only because when you’re _unhappy_ , you tend to share it,” he pointed out. Harry reflected on how things had worked between them so far and had to agree. “Having your superiors at work irritated with you for failing to create the image they so desperately want, would probably make you unhappy. Therefore, it is to my advantage in the long term that we go together, much as both of us would prefer to avoid it in the short term.” Harry nodded slowly. It sounded plausible… He still eyed his slave, wondering if the man was employing the tactic of revealing a less important truth in order to hide another. He wouldn’t put it past him.

“I see,” he replied noncommittally.

“Then we will have to decide how I am to present myself, master,” Tom told him, smoothly controlling the direction of the conversation. It was almost impressive, if Harry had been impressed by Slytherin tactics, that is. Still, he didn’t press on the previous topic – if he ordered Tom to tell him the whole truth, it would probably destroy the small progress they seemed to be making, much as Harry was reluctant to hope again after having his hopes dashed not that long ago. Besides, Tom had already promised to behave in public more than once, and he was right – making a scene at the ball would do nothing but make Harry angry. He’d probably be forced to punish him in front of everyone as well, a fact he was sure hadn’t escaped Tom’s notice.

Sure, he might do that to try to evoke sympathy from the watchers, but if what he’d overheard from Hermione was true, expressing the slightest of sympathy for Death Eaters was enough to draw criticism, even for one of the heroes of the war. So really, Harry couldn’t see how Tom could cause problems for him in this particular instance. Maybe there was some longer goal he had – he’d said it himself: short term pain, long term gain. Actually, thinking back on his actions over the last three months, most of them had been done with that in mind.

Ah well, he’d deal with it if it came up later. If he spent all his time thinking about what Tom was plotting, he’d be like he was with Malfoy in Sixth year, and frankly, that was something he’d rather not repeat.

“Alright. What about it?” Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Well, do you want me to be the well-trained slave dressed neatly but inconspicuously? Or do you want me to be the regularly-beaten slave who flinches whenever you speak to me and is practically dressed in rags?” Harry stared at him.

“Isn’t this a bit out of character for you?” he asked hesitantly. “I thought you hated behaving like a slave in public.” Tom shrugged.

“The only way I can see getting through this without doing or saying something…unwise, is to pull on a persona. The more different from reality, the easier it is to remember it’s just an act.”

“Huh,” acknowledged Harry. He supposed that if anyone knew masks, it would be the man who had got through Hogwarts while pretending to be a model student. Hmm, that raised an interesting question – given how different the Tom he’d got to know was from the evil maniac he’d spent so long trying to battle, had Voldemort ever been just a persona? If so, perhaps it was one which had taken on too much life, eventually becoming reality… Directing his thoughts back to the matter at hand, he asked Tom a question. “Why those two suggestions?” Tom met his eyes, his gaze thoughtful.

“Consider what the Ministry wishes to portray, master. How do you think my suggestions would fit in?” Harry glared half-heartedly at Tom.

“You’re not trying to turn me into a Slytherin, are you?” Tom just smirked at him. Heaving a theatrical sigh, Harry gave some serious thought to the question. “Uh, well, I guess that the second is about punishment. Presenting you as badly treated makes it look like you’re getting what you deserve.”

“As you say, master. What are the benefits and drawbacks of this approach?” Harry considered it. This kind of seeing from others’ perspectives was _not_ something he was used to. But…thinking about it, it was about getting in the mind of other people. That would surely only help him with his Auror work – being able to understand the mind of a criminal enough to predict where they would next target was an important skill, he’d discovered in one of his classes. “I suppose…it’s quite a brutal image. It might shock people.”

“True,” Tom commented. “What else?”

“Perhaps…perhaps it would give a message that I, and by association, the Ministry was unafraid to use force, that they – we – wouldn’t let fair play or kindness get in the way of justice.”

“Exactly. Now, what about the other approach?” Harry thought about it. This was kind of fun – he felt like he and Tom were conspiring together against the world.

“That one’s not about punishment…perhaps it’s about reformation – the other aim?” He looked at Tom, but the man just gestured for him to go on. “So, there you are, serving me as a ‘perfect slave’, me, the person who was the figurehead of the side that you fought against. And I guess…it’s not about violence, so maybe it’s about control?” Tom’s expression was pretty neutral, but Harry could see the hint of warmth in his eyes. “By having you there, it says to the people watching that the Ministry’s methods are effective and that, a few months after the war ended, they are in control.” Tom nodded his head slowly.

“For someone not used to thinking through these kinds of things, that wasn’t bad.” His praise was grudging, and somewhat of a back-handed comment, but Harry still felt good about it. “The final question, then, is which would suit the aims of the Ministry best? Our goal, after all, is to make sure you are in your superiors’ good books.” Harry again thought about it.

“Much as I’d like to see you playing the role of a terrified slave,” he started slowly, “I think the one with you as a competent slave would be both more believable and better for what Kingsley’s trying to achieve. Plus, I’m tired of everyone just _assuming_ I’m abusing you. If I play into that role, I’ll never be rid of it.” The last he said with a bit of asperity, still sore over it. Tom bowed his head briefly.

“Very well, master. Perhaps we could procure appropriate clothes for me at some point.” Harry nodded.

“I suppose that would be a good idea. Alright, we’ll go out on Saturday.” A brief look of unease went over his face. “Let’s hope nothing happens _this_ time.” There was a pause.

“Master, I do believe you’ve just…jinxed it,” commented Tom dryly. They stared at each other.

“For both of our sakes, I hope you’re wrong,” Harry muttered finally. Tom shrugged elegantly. There was another brief moment of silence.

“Shall I go and prepare dinner, master?” Tom asked.

“Sure,” said Harry, getting up. “I’ll be in the sitting room.” He left the room, his last view of Tom being the man bending forward to pick up his empty glass before rising to his feet fluidly. His bad mood was gone, replaced by a kind of tired contentedness. He wasn’t sure if it was more from the physical exertion of the duel, having told Tom about the ball and getting his agreement to come, or the give and take they’d engaged in. It was a surprise, but Harry realised he’d actually enjoyed the conversation – it had felt like he and Tom were conspiring against all the people he’d have to encounter at the ball. And, much as he didn’t want to raise his hopes once again for an amicable relationship, he couldn’t help the contentment that hummed in his chest at the fact that they had been able to plan together without animosity.

At the kitchen table about half an hour later, Harry tasted the stir-fry that Tom had made and hummed in contentment. Tom’s cooking had _definitely_ improved.

“This is really good, Tom,” Harry told him warmly. “You’ve been doing a really good job with the dinners lately,” he praised. Tom dropped his eyes to the table and clenched his hand around his knife briefly, his expression stiffening.

“Thank you, master,” he managed to choke out a moment later. Harry frowned, taking in his slave’s actions closely. Surely the collar wasn’t punishing him? What would it be punishing him for? Then he realised – it probably wasn’t punishing him; it was rewarding him. No doubt it was reacting to Harry’s approval to give him a dose of pleasure that he really didn’t want.

“I’m sorry,” he said, biting his lip. “I didn’t realise it would-“

“It’s fine,” Tom cut him off. “Just…please… Don’t be too…effusive,” he finished. Harry just nodded, feeling crestfallen. He couldn’t praise Tom, now?

And then a realisation hit Harry like a bludger – of course Tom wasn’t starting to feel any sort of affection or warm-feeling towards Harry naturally. The collar was designed to make an obedient, eager-to-please pet. Despite Tom’s resistance to its methods, clearly, it was still having an effect. Feeling like he was mourning the loss of something he hadn’t even realised he’d wanted, Harry turned his eyes to his plate, his food now tasting like ashes.

XXX

Tom sighed, leaning back in his chair. The collar’s enchantment was one of the most complex he’d ever seen. But he was making headway. Bit by bit, hours spent on one line of calculations until he was certain that he understood how it worked and how it related to the lines connected to it. And he wasn’t even _close_ to halfway done. At this rate, he’d be looking at _hopefully_ having the whole thing done by next April or May. Five or six months…

It was enough to make him scream.

The bloody collar had changed its methods. He’d been doing so well at avoiding punishment recently, that it had taken to _rewarding_ him more often instead. Dinner last night had been a case in point. At his master’s warm compliment, the Merlin-be-damned thing had decided that he should be sent a wave of pleasure that had almost made him moan out loud. Yes, he knew Harry hadn’t done it intentionally, but it was just so frustrating!

He knew he should probably act out for a while, reset it back to punishment mode or something, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to doing it. Maybe it had been the more relaxed atmosphere between them, or maybe it had been the soft look on Harry’s face every time he looked at Tom recently…but whatever it was, he couldn’t bring himself to say something nasty which would get him punished, or even do something which might upset Harry… He could say something to his master, but he suspected that Harry knowing would defeat the purpose of the exercise – misbehaving with his master’s permission wasn’t really misbehaving.

Maybe he could slack off on his chores, or something. But then if Harry found out, he’d probably give Tom some sort of disappointed look, and that would hurt more than the punishment. Tom wasn’t interested in exploring _why_ that might be the case, but accepted it as a fact.

Aargh!

Glaring a hole in the wall, Tom took a few deep breaths. Right now, frustration was worse than useless – it was counterproductive. He pushed it away – he’d deal with it later in the garden with the monstrous plants which were still ruling the roost. Actually, Tom wasn’t trying very hard to defeat them – clearing the garden meant the end of his sanctioned wand time, so he’d secretly been mixing attack spells with ones that would make the plants grow. So far, he didn’t think Harry had noticed.

But for now, back to work. He bent over his parchment again, squinting at the complex runes and numbers which made up the enchantment diagram.

XXX

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Harry cast. Tom countered by simply stepping out of the way, his wand moving through the motions of another spell which was cast wordlessly. Harry deflected it with a wordless _protego_ , but his eyes widened as he saw the characteristic red of the Cruciatus heading towards him – he was out of position and wouldn’t be able to dodge in time. “ _Expelliarmus_!” he shouted, the two spells colliding in mid-air. There was an explosion that sent them both flying backwards.

“Ow,” Harry heard Tom groaning from the cloud of dust which had formed over them all. Harry agreed, wincing as he pushed himself upright, coughing. Testing his limbs he nodded in satisfaction – a few bruises and cuts, but fortunately no broken bones that he could feel. With a few movements of his wand, the dust had started to clear revealing a dent in the floorboards, and a crack in the ceiling above.

“Oops,” Harry said, his eyes wide. Looking over at his slave, he saw the man using spells to clear his clothes of the dust which was making him look like a rather funny coloured ghost. Taking a glance down at himself, Harry realised that he couldn’t really say much considering he looked just as bad. He started using _tergeo_ to siphon off the dust from his own garments. They both then moved on in unspoken agreement to fixing the room. “Did the duelling wards get damaged?” Harry asked Tom, reminding himself to get the man to teach him how to feel magic at some point.

Tom cast a couple of spells before shaking his head.

“No, they seem fine, master. They need recharging, though. That was a hell of an explosion. Why did you try and counter an Unforgiveable with a Second-year spell, exactly?” Harry shrugged.

“It worked before.”

“It worked bef- _when_ did it work before?” Harry grinned wryly at him.

“You mean the events of the graveyard are not as engraved – hah – on your memory as they are on mine?”

“The grave- oh. _That_ time.” Tom’s mouth twisted with irritation of being reminded of it. Harry didn’t blame him. He’d had a fair few nightmares of that moment himself, being haunted by Cedric’s death and by his part in the resurrection of his mortal – or immortal, as it may be – enemy. Over time, however, he’d come to take some pride in it. Not in the deaths or the resurrection, but in his survival. Voldemort had engineered that whole situation, planning to use Harry in life for his blood, and then no doubt also in death as a blow of terror to herald his resurrection. He’d only achieved one of those aims, despite having all the advantages. So yeah, Harry took a bit of pride in having stymied his enemy once again and, as a result of his survival, giving the Order a year to prepare – Voldemort wouldn’t have been concerned with the prophecy if the subject of it was dead, after all.

“Yeah, you know when you shot _avada kedavra_ at me and I countered it with _expelliarmus_? That time.” Tom looked thoughtful.

“Then why was there an explosion this time instead of it prompting Priori Incantatem?” Harry stared at him.

“Uh…how about because we don’t have brother wands anymore?” Tom frowned.

“What?” he asked sharply. He winced. “Master,” he added quickly. Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Hadn’t you noticed? I’m using a different wand…” He wiggled his wand out in front of him. Tom squinted at it.

“So you are. When did that happen, master?” he asked, a hint of confusion in his voice. Harry just shook his head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe you hadn’t noticed! They’re not even that similar in colour – my holly wand was a bit paler than this one and longer. I broke my wand on Christmas Eve in, oh, 1997, I think? Yeah, that sounds right. I used a few which didn’t really work for me for a while, but when we rescued Ollivander from Malfoy Manor, he agreed to make me a new one.” In the end, the man had chosen blackthorn for its reputation of being wielded by warrior, in the knowledge that its requirement of passing through hardship with its wielder was likely to be achieved, given the situation. For a core, apparently he hadn’t had any phoenix feathers available, but he’d had a few threstral hairs which he’d thought would go well.

It had taken a while for Harry and the wand to get used to each other, but slowly, battle by battle, one desperate struggle for survival after another, they had built a relationship. Now, Harry had no complaints. In fact, he wondered if it was an even better fit – his holly wand had always had some spells it hadn’t liked to do; not so with his blackthorn. He still kept the broken pieces of his first wand in his room, along with the shards of the communication mirror from Sirius, his invisibility cloak from his dad, his album of photos, and the snitch he’d received from Dumbledore – though he’d thought more than once of throwing that away after learning about the man’s plan for him, he’d never actually done it.

Tom looked thoughtful.

“You know, I have a vague memory of the Malfoys telling me something about you using a different wand, but I think I was so angered by your escape that it didn’t really register…” A thought struck Harry.

“If you didn’t know I was using a different wand, why did you go back to your yew one? I thought you did that because you weren’t worried about the Priori Incantatem effect.” Tom shook his head.

“It wasn’t that, master. In reality, the wand I had sought to replace mine with was supposed to be much more powerful, but it didn’t live up to its reputation. After trying it for a while, I decided to return to the wand which had served me faithfully throughout my time.” Harry nodded slowly, his mind racing.

“The Elder wand, wasn’t it?” he asked, remembering the discussions he’d had with Ron and Hermione while they had been on the run. “Strange…maybe it _was_ just a fairy tale, then.” Tom shrugged.

“Or maybe I wasn’t its master. The thought occurred to me not long before…before May, that while it was my order which had led to its previous master’s death, I hadn’t actually killed him. I was planning on killing _Severus_ as soon as I saw him in the battle, but…”

“You didn’t get a chance,” Harry finished. Privately, he felt like they’d dodged a bullet with that one. The idea of Voldemort being _even more powerful_ was _not_ a pleasant one. He shivered. Eying Tom, he saw his fingers tapping unconsciously on that long, pale wand, and suddenly didn’t feel like duelling anymore. Sticking out his hand, Harry felt the need to remind himself that Voldemort was gone; Tom was all that was left and he was in charge of Tom, so those terrible times couldn’t happen again.

“I’m stopping duelling for today. Wand,” was all he said. There was a flash of irritation in those blood-red orbs, but Tom complied, placing his wand gently into Harry’s hand. Harry nodded. “Good. Now, I want this place spotless by the end of the day.” The irritation turned into true annoyance, but Tom just bowed his head.

“Yes, master,” he acknowledged, only traces of his anger able to be heard. Harry nodded again, sharply, then turned and went out of the room. Time to bury himself in his studies – from experience, he knew that was the only real way to distract himself from the memories that threatened to suck him under.

XXX

“Tom!” The call echoed up the steps to where he was polishing the bannisters. For some reason, ever since that duel, his master had been more pernickety about his actions, giving him more specific chores to do rather than just the general ‘clean the house’ one he’d been comfortably exploiting. Polishing the bannisters was definitely not something he would have _chosen_ to do. Plus, it cut into his research time – Harry seemed to know rather too well what was and what wasn’t possible to accomplish during a day. He was never given tasks which were not achievable, but they didn’t leave him much time for anything else.

Still, the one good thing with them was that when Harry was more specific, it gave Tom more opportunity for disobeying him slightly without him noticing. He’d been pleased to note that little disobediences, like using a different polish on the bannisters, for example, was enough to reset the collar out of its damnable pleasure mode. Sure, he’d had to endure a fair bit more pain in the last couple of weeks than he’d prefer, but as a solution to avoiding too much of the pleasure, at the same time as not upsetting his master…it worked.

Walking down the steps quickly enough to not be tugged along by the collar like a dog, but slowly enough to not feel like he was rushing eagerly to meet his master’s command, Tom reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Sanjay Patil and Lucy Briggs are coming in a moment. They’re here to talk about the case.” Ah, the lawyers. Tom wasn’t quite sure what that had to do with him, but… “We’ll need tea and biscuits in the sitting room.” That explained it. His master hesitated for a moment, then continued. “You’ve been researching Wizarding law, haven’t you?” Tom shrugged.

“Intermittently,” he replied. What he actually meant was he’d read a few books on it in the week after finding out about it, and not since. Harry nodded.

“OK, good. I want you to stay for the discussion, then, and if you’ve got any pertinent question or point which you think should be said, I’d like you to contribute.”

“As you wish, master,” Tom said indifferently. He’d read about the matters out of interest more than any sort of thought that they might be useful. But if his master wanted him there, well of course he would be.

“Think of it as practice for how to behave at the Ministry ball next week,” Harry told him cheerfully. Tom glared at him half-heartedly. He was unfortunately right – they had that whole event looming where Tom was going to have to play the perfect slave. Fortunately, the trip to Diagon Alley to get him a set of sober, neat robes had gone off without a hitch – just diving in and diving out of the clothes shop.

“As you say, master. Shall I prepare the tea and biscuits now?” he asked, deciding to start his act now. A quirk formed at the corner of his master’s mouth as he took in the slight shift in demeanour Tom had made and the more servile note in his voice. Mentally, he distanced himself from his body, the way he had always done at Hogwarts. He’d found it had been the only way of getting through each day without lashing out and hurting someone with his magic, especially in the first few weeks after returning from the orphanage.

Instead of the words and actions being registered by his real personality, they essentially _bounced_ off his carefully-crafted persona. They couldn’t really impact him, because they were aimed at a figment of his imagination. It had been lonely, but Tom had never known anything _but_ loneliness. At least, he hadn’t until coming here. Here, in his master’s home with all his barriers stripped away, with someone who knew the worst of him, but was still willing to be kind to him; someone who was still willing to defend him, to stand up for him when he couldn’t for himself.

Suddenly realising his teeth were clenched and his hand was so tight around the handle of the kettle that Tom was almost worried it would break despite being metal, he forcefully redirected his thoughts. Feeling vulnerable had never been something he’d liked, even just with himself. He’d been glad when creating his first horcrux had lifted a weight off his shoulders in terms of that – after he’d split his soul in half, his desire for introspection and to question his own actions had evaporated almost completely. Now, looking back, he realised that’s where he’d gone horribly wrong, but sometimes he longed for the feeling of invulnerability, the self-assurance that he _couldn’t_ be wrong.

Taking a deep breath as he set the kettle on the stove to boil, he used the unfamiliar motions of preparing a tea tray to settle himself into his persona. He was a slave, a well-trained slave. He was unnoticeable until called upon by his master to serve, and then he would perform the action competently and efficiently before returning to his state of insignificance. He did not fear his master, but he respected him and would obey even the slightest indication of a desire.

Feeling himself having slipped into the unfamiliar skin of this new persona, he picked up the tray and walked towards the parlour. Entering, his eyes lowered, he gracefully knelt on one knee, placing the tray on the coffee table in between the arrangement of armchairs. The conversation around him paused.

“Master, the tea you ordered,” Tom said smoothly, not a hint in his voice of the begrudging, irritated or grumpy tone that would usually accompany such a phrase.

“Mr Patil, Ms Briggs, tea?”

“Black, please,” the male voice said.

“The same for me, please, but with a splash of milk,” added the female voice. Tom prepared the two teas quickly, as ordered, handing them to his master, who then passed them to the appropriate people.

“My normal, Tom,” Tom’s master ordered. Tom did so, adding a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar, handing it over with his head bowed. Not that Tom had prepared it before, but he’d seen him make his tea often enough in the morning to know. Of course, the impression they were giving was that this _was_ a usual occurrence.

Done with the tea, Tom rose, moved to beside his master’s chair and knelt once more, his head bowed so that his eyes were ostensibly on the floor – in actual fact they were using the shadow of his fringe to watch the events without being seen. Settling into position and being prepared to be still for as long as necessary, he had to be glad that, despite the general pretence of this whole situation, at least he’d had enough practice at kneeling recently to not find it too uncomfortable anymore.

“Is this the slave damaged by the incident?” asked the woman, her voice calculating.

“He is,” replied Tom’s master neutrally.

“St Mungo’s did a good job at restoring him to full health, I see,” she commented. “Now with him in front of me, I can see why you decided to choose that option – he’s rather stunning, isn’t he.” It’s just the persona, Tom told himself. The persona would not take offence: the persona _cannot_ take offence, because to take offense is to embarrass the master.

“And, he saved my life,” retorted Tom’s master sharply. The man cleared his throat.

“I think we’re getting off topic here. We’ve been approached by lawyers from S.H.Arks – they have discussed the situation with their client and reviewed the evidence. The defendant, a Mr Jameson, has agreed to plead guilty if we offer a suggested sentence of five years imprisonment and payment of damages. Is this acceptable to you?” There was a silence, then Tom heard his master shifting next to him.

“Tom, what has your research told you about the general outcome of attempted murder cases that go to court?” Why was Harry asking him this? Tom surfaced out of his persona for a moment so he could think clearly. He had two experienced lawyers right in front of him that he could ask for ask for information… Ah, unless it wasn’t information but an _opinion_ that he was asking for. Certainly, the last time they had spoken about this subject, Harry’s words had indicated that he thought Tom should be more angry about the situation than he really was…maybe he wanted to see if Tom was willing to go with the proposal?

“Master, my research has indicated that many attempted murder trials are a bit hit and miss. From what I’ve read, many things can sway the judge’s decision and thus the sentence applied. Depending on many factors, including the subjective picture of the defendant and the public’s opinion of you, master, the sentence if taken to trial could be anything between three and ten years. If I may add something, however: if it is made apparent that a plea bargain of five years was made and rejected, it might sway the judge into being more lenient to the defendant.” There. Hopefully he’d managed to make his willingness to accept the suggestion plain to Harry without revealing the exchange of opinions to the lawyers. Tom sank back into his persona, hearing the shift as his master turned back to face his guests.

“Would you agree with my slave’s summary?” he asked, a note of challenge sounding faintly in his voice.

“You had your slave researching criminal cases?” the woman asked, her voice surprised.

“He was one of the most brilliant students at Hogwarts in recent times.” The shrug was clear in his voice, even if Tom couldn’t see it. “I didn’t see the point in wasting that brain completely when I could be putting it to work for me.”

“True,” the woman replied, sounding slightly impressed. “Well, he did a decent job: I would have said something similar. And his last comment was spot on – historically, judges do not look kindly on prosecutors who continue to push a case when a satisfactory plea bargain has been offered. No doubt S.H.Arks knew that, which is why they didn’t offer a minimum sentence.”

“My colleague is correct,” the man broke in. “Added to that is the uncertainty around how a judge may view both you and the defendant – you have the glamour of being the Man-who-Conquered, and your ‘social currency’ is still at a significant high, but there are also extenuating circumstances in the case of the defendant which creates some unpredictability as to the final sentence decided. In my professional opinion, it’s a good deal.” There was a pause.

“Say we accept the bargain…what would be the next step?”

“We, on your behalf, will set a court date. When it is established, we will submit your written statement. At that point, the lawyers of S.H.Arks will put forward their guilty plea, agreeing with your written statement of events. We will subsequently recommend a five year Azkaban sentence and full repayment of all costs, submitting a copy of your St Mungo’s bill and our legal fees. Unless the judge is keen to have more information or deems the recommended sentence inappropriate, he or she will agree with the proposed sentence and the defendant will appear briefly in court to receive the sentence in person. After that, you will receive an official owl from the court informing you of their decision, along with a bank draft for your damages extra to our fees. Those will be paid directly by the defendant.”

“And if the judge requires more information?”

“Then you may need to testify in person, and we may have to call in other witnesses. I highly doubt that will be necessary, however. Generally, the court prefers the most time-efficient option, especially in this time where they’re still scrambling to catch up with all the misdemeanours which were not solved by the enslavement of all main actors in the last war. Unfortunately, as you can probably imagine, the chaos of those events allowed a plethora of petty crime to thrive, despite it not being directly linked to Death Eater activity.”

Huh, Tom hadn’t actually thought about that – in toppling the previous Ministry and gutting the Auror’s department, he hadn’t realised that he was opening the doors for a whole load of other petty criminals. He supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised though – crime always did well in times of uncertainty and change.

A sudden thought arrested him for a moment – had he actually taken full control of the Ministry, had he actually killed his nemesis and disposed with the Resistance, would he have dealt with the crime which his actions had inadvertently caused? Would he have brought them to heel once the people they were preying on were, essentially, under his rule. He had a nasty feeling that, as insane and…psychopathic as he had become, he wouldn’t have cared.

And wasn’t that a realisation? After all, hadn’t his original goal before splitting his soul been to become the Minister for Magic? Hadn’t he sold an ideal of a new, better world to his followers, even once he had started down the pathway to madness? What would the world have been like if he had won? A crime-ridden society where everyone either feared or preyed on each other? A nation beset with the rot of madness which had infected its ruler? Shaken by his realisation of how _bad_ his rule would have been for the Wizarding world, he pushed the thoughts away and returned to the conversation at hand and his persona.

“-good decision, Mr Potter,” the woman said warmly. “We’ll send the required paperwork for a court date as soon as possible, and send your acceptance to S.H.Arks.” Apparently his master had agreed to the plea bargain. Probably the best choice, really. There was the sound of a briefcase being opened and parchment being withdrawn. “Could you just sign here...and here. Good, good. Now here again…initials here. There, you’re done.”

“Thank you for your advice,” Tom’s master said.

“Thank you for choosing us, Mr Potter,” replied the man. “While, of course, we hope you do not have any other legal matters that will need to be attended to, we hope that should an event arise, you will consider our law firm again.” Tom’s master let out a short, humour-less laugh.

“Given it’s me we’re talking about, I probably will need legal help again. And yes, I would be happy to continue working with your firm. Assuming the settlement of this case as predicted, of course.” There was a pause and then the sound of him shifting in his chair. “Do you know why this…Mr Jameson…attacked us?” Tom’s master asked. Tom, interested in the answer too, briefly broke out of his persona to lift his head and watch the two lawyers. “Was he a supporter who was missed by Lady Magic’s enslavement?” The two lawyers exchanged an uneasy glance.

“He wasn’t a supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Mr Potter,” answered the woman. Some part of Tom was pleased that some people still feared his name so much that even having been publically defeated, they still wouldn’t say it. Another part of him, the part that had only come into existence very recently, was discomforted.

“Then why did he attack us?” asked Harry, frowning. The lawyers exchanged another glance.

“Are you sure you want to know, Mr Potter?” asked the man gently.

“Of course,” replied Tom’s master, clearly confused. The man sighed.

“Mr Jameson’s wife was killed in an accident two years ago, an accident that had its origins in Death Eater activities. His only daughter was killed only last April…She was at Hogwarts and had an altercation with the Carrows, from all accounts. I believe she was…not in a good state when they found her body. Mr Jameson apparently blames you for not ending the war sooner. Of course, his blame is misplaced, but he wasn’t a supporter of terrorism; he was just a grieving father.” There was a silence filled with unspoken words. Tom glanced up at Harry – he looked stricken.

The female lawyer stood and picked up her briefcase, looking slightly awkward.

“We’ll see ourselves out, Mr Potter. Thank you again for choosing our firm to conduct your legal affairs.”

“Of course,” Harry replied woodenly, standing too to shake hands with both lawyers. “Thank you for visiting.” Then they were gone and Tom’s master slumped into his armchair with a sound that almost sounded like a sob, hiding his face in his hands. Tom hesitated. Should he just…go? Merlin knew _he_ wouldn’t want anyone seeing him if he was distressed like this. Then he reconsidered – much as they were alike in many ways, they really weren’t in many others.

Hesitantly, he shuffled round on his knees so he was almost facing Harry. Reaching out, he placed a hand on the man’s knee.

“Master?” he asked, surprised by the note of concern in his own voice. He wasn’t actually worried for his master, was he? Harry took in a deep, shuddering breath before releasing it, just as explosively. He took his hands away from his face. Tom was actually surprised to see that his eyes were dry. Harry clearly noted it.

“You thought I was crying?” Tom shrugged. “I…I don’t cry. I can’t, I don’t think, most of the time. Too much supressing tears when I was young – now I can’t cry even when I want to.” His voice sounded completely desolate. Tom was struck by the extremely strong – and extremely unexpected – desire to comfort him. Harry’s voice sounding so…dead, was simply not right – it was always full of life, full of emotion, whether positive or negative.

“What distresses you, master?” he asked instead of addressing his own desire or Harry’s words. Harry leaned back in the chair, staring into the ever-present fire.

“I…I could have ended the war a year earlier, maybe. I don’t even know if it would have worked but... _Dumbledore_ ,” and Tom had _never_ heard the old fool’s being spat with such venom, not from someone on his side, at least – it shocked him to hear the boy he believed had been mentored by the man using such a tone, “left breadcrumbs along a trail that was supposed to lead me towards some fantastic solution. And while I have my doubts about it, significant doubts…it also doesn’t stop me feeling guilty at all the people who might have died needlessly, because of my choices.” Then he looked back at Tom, the fire he had been looking at somehow having entered his eyes, or at least that was the impression Tom had with the way they almost glowed in a hostile glare.

“And then I question why I _should_ feel guilty. It wasn’t me who tortured, raped and murdered those people. It was _you_ and your _Death Eaters_. Why should I take the burden of _your_ guilt on my shoulders?” In that moment, the answer was simple.

“You shouldn’t,” Tom told him, his voice an antithesis to Harry’s fire – it was instead as calm as a millpond.

“What?” Harry asked, taken aback. While Tom was glad to note that the anger had died down in his confusion, strangely enough, that hadn’t actually been his motivation for speaking. Tom hesitated to identify why.

“You shouldn’t bear the guilt, master. It isn’t yours to carry. I targeted you as a baby, and victimised you as a child. You fought me as a teenager, defeating me as a young man. You have already borne a burden greater than most, and have succeeded despite it. Those people who would blame you for not ending the war sooner…where were they during the war? They have wands, do they not? This Mr Jameson had enough power to see through the notice-me-not and then cast a powerful Blasting Curse; where was he when his daughter was being terrorised? If all the parents had come together and stood against the Death Eaters I had put at the school, there would have been no contest.”

“You know the answer,” Harry told him quietly, his voice carrying a strange note. Tom hesitated to name it as ‘wonder’, but couldn’t think of anything else it was similar to. Tom shrugged.

“Of course. Fear. I acted intentionally in ways to make them fear me, to cooperate in their own subjugation. Well, they should not then turn around and attack one of the few wizards who did not allow that to stop them fighting,” he said fiercely. Harry looked at him for several long moments.

“Why does it sound like you actually approve of what I did?” Tom looked away, and didn’t answer for a long few beats. The words had just poured out of him, crystallising emotions he hadn’t even realised he had; bringing up conclusions he hadn’t realised he’d attained. The fire cracked, the sound reminding him of Harry’s nature – a flame that burnt bright and hot, but could gutter and die if its fuel was removed.

“Maybe I do,” he said finally, quietly. Looking back up at Harry, he met that emerald gaze, so intent on his own. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, master. Cleaning is not the most…engaging of tasks, after all,” he gave a forced chuckle. “And…I’ve had a lot of time to think about my actions and what might have happened if I’d got everything I wanted. It’s…It’s not a good picture.” He stopped, unable to continue, colour rising in his cheeks. “But one thing I have always admired is bravery. Even when I just cut it down in its tracks a moment later, I always thought well of the wizards and witches who stood up for their beliefs. And people who just take their pain out on others…they’re not brave.*” Harry didn’t release his gaze for a good few seconds, those green, green eyes feeling like they were piercing him to his tattered soul. Then, as he leant back and looked at the fire again, Tom felt like he could breathe once more.

“No, they’re not,” Harry agreed finally. Tom joined him in gazing at the lick of the red-gold flames in the grate. In silence, they kept each other company, each with his own thoughts.

XXX

“Tom,” started Harry. They were relaxing together, in their normal places: Harry at his desk on one side of the room, Tom on the carpet in front of the fireplace with a book. Tom looked up, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Master?”

“I’m…I’m going to the Weasleys for Christmas Day. You…I didn’t think you’d want to go, but if you want to come, I’m sure they’d be…well, I’m sure they’d be OK with it?” His voice sounded full of the doubt that Tom felt at the assertion. Tom grimaced at the thought of spending the day with a gaggle of rambunctious red-heads, having to be polite while scenes of orchestrating their deaths played through his head every time they made an insensitive remark.

“No, thank you, master,” he said firmly. “I’ll be just fine here.” Harry nodded, looking relieved.

“OK. Good. I mean, I’m glad you’re OK with that.” An amused look came on his face. “I have to say I couldn’t really imagine you fitting in, even if none of them knew who you were.”

“It’s the stuff of nightmares,” remarked Tom, unthinkingly. Then, with a sudden chill of horror, he whipped his head towards Harry, hoping insulting his friends wouldn’t make him take offence. Harry just _laughed_ when he saw Tom’s expression.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said finally. “The Weasleys are wonderful, but even I have to admit they can be a bit much.” Knowing he wasn’t going to get punished now, Tom allowed his face to show an expression that showed exactly how much of an understatement he suspected that averment to be. Not that he’d ever personally encountered the Weasleys en masse, but they just had a certain…air. Silence fell for a few minutes before Harry broke it once more. Apparently whatever he was reading was not enough to keep his attention from wandering.

“I’ve been wondering this for a while. Why did you choose Nagini to be one of your horcruxes? I mean, she was alive, wasn’t she? I don’t know how long snakes live, but surely that’s a bit of risk to take.”

Tom put his book down and switched to leaning against one of the armchairs near the fireplace – he had a feeling this conversation was going to take longer than just a few exchanges, and lying on his stomach while craning his neck up to look at Harry simply wasn’t comfortable.

His horcruxes. Even though he didn’t have them anymore, it was still uncomfortable to have them just casually discussed. They had once been his most precious objects, the tethers that would hold him to life no matter what happened. Now…now they were reminders of the damage he’d done to himself from fear of dying before the world had learned his name.

And Nagini…now that was a whole different story. Sighing, Tom cast his memories back to the first time he had met Nagini, in the forests of Albania. She had been wandering, restless like him. Something about her had drawn his attention – she had been no ordinary snake; that was certain. Possessing a human intelligence, he rather thought that conversations with her had been the main thing that had brought him out of that world where time drifted past like mist, here one moment, gone the next.

“Nagini wasn’t a snake, master, not really.**” Harry frowned at him.

“What do you mean?”

“She was a Maledictus.” The frown deepened.

“A what?”

“A person with a blood-borne curse passed from mother to daughter, destined to eventually be forced into the body of a beast permanently.” Harry stared at him.

“I did _not_ know that.” Tom smirked at him.

“That much was obvious, master.” Harry lifted his hands as if to ward off something.

“Wait, backtrack a moment. Nagini was a human? Or, had been a human, at least?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that still a risk? I mean, she’d still have a limit on her lifespan, right? Whether it was a snake’s lifespan or a human’s.” Tom shrugged.

“Technically, I believe she had a human lifespan – she was certainly as old as me; she never told me her exact age, so I’m not sure how old she was exactly. Nevertheless, by being a horcrux, she would be kept alive as long as I was.” A wave of wistfulness flowed over him. “That was one reason I made her a horcrux to begin with. We…grew close, in our time in Albania.” Harry raised his eyebrows at him.

“Voldemort actually appreciated someone other than himself? Wow – learn something every day, I guess.” Tom glared at him half-heartedly – it wasn’t exactly _untrue_ after all. Hadn’t he admitted to himself a couple of weeks ago that him being the ruler of the Wizarding world in Britain would have been disastrous for the society, simply because he wouldn’t have cared? Harry drew his attention by startling suddenly.

“Wait, are you telling me that I would have been _immortal_?” Tom stared at him, his mind easily connecting the dots.

“Don’t tell me you were a horcrux?!” he spluttered in sheer incredulity, then winced. “Master,” he added. Harry gave him a wry grin.

“Yep, your seventh, unintentional horcrux.”

“What…but how?!” Harry shrugged, and the smile vanished from his face.

“When you killed my parents. Dumbledore believed your soul was so fragmented by that point that you didn’t realise what you’d done. He thought that was where I got the ability to speak Parseltongue from,” he looked thoughtful. “In fact, I don’t know whether I still have that or not.” Tom frowned.

“But how did he plan for you to defeat me if you were my _horcrux_?” Harry sighed and didn’t answer for a long moment.

“You know that conversation we had after the lawyers left a couple of weeks ago? The one where I said Dumbledore had had a plan?” Tom did. The words and the conclusions he had drawn that afternoon hadn’t stopped rattling around his head since.

“Yes, master.”

“Well, that was his plan. He thought that the best way to get rid of the horcrux was for me to walk up to you and get you to kill me.” Tom stared at him.

“Was the old fool genuinely _insane_?” he asked in disbelief. That was…the worst possible idea he’d ever heard. Sure, the only way he knew of to destroy a horcrux also involved destroying its vessel, but he could think of two rituals off hand which might be able to _move_ a soul piece from one vessel to another. He’d done some research before creating his third horcrux, in two minds about his primary tether being a _diary_ , especially one linked to his former identity; in the end, he’d decided that the potential of the diary as a weapon outweighed its inappropriate symbolism as an object. Sure, the rituals were complicated and designed for objects, not people, but he would have thought the _great Albus Dumbledore_ could have modified them sufficiently, with time. Though, he supposed that they _were_ dark, and perhaps he hadn’t known they’d existed. Still, a little bit of research would have gone a long way. Clearly, he hadn’t looked too hard for another solution. Harry chuckled, the sound angry and humourless.

“Seems like it. He raised me like a pig for the slaughter. Even Snape was horrified when he heard the plan, and you know how much he hates me.”

“When did you find out, master?”

“Near the end of 1998.”

“But Dumbledore was dead. How could he tell you from beyond the grave? Unless,” here Tom looked horrified. “Unless he’s _not_ dead…” Harry chuckled again and this time it sounded a bit less forced.

“No, he’s dead. It was Snape who told us. He thought we were taking too long, you see. We’d thought of going to Hogwarts in May for your diadem, but had decided that it was too risky when you still had at least one other horcrux around – Nagini. Plus, we knew you’d discovered that they were being destroyed and we didn’t know if you’d started creating them again. Then there was the whole mess of that autumn where we were desperately chasing down your trusted Death Eaters, hoping to find out for certain whether Nagini and the diadem were the only ones left. I think Snape caught wind of you doubting his loyalty or something, because that’s when he defected for good and gave us the memories of his conversations with Dumbledore.”

“Did you ever confront him? _Severus_ , that is.” Tom asked, intrigued despite himself. Frankly, he thought he was just in a state of shock. Finding out that the enemy he’d tried to kill for so many years had actually been one of the tethers holding him to life… Not to mention, of course, that Albus ‘all life is precious’ Dumbledore had been planning the death of his golden child for what must have been _years_. And then also finding out how close he had got to actually _dying_ …Much as he hated to admit it, for the first time, he was _glad_ that Harry had done the ritual – he might hate being a slave, but when compared to the alternative of being _dead_ , it didn’t seem so bad. _Especially not as_ Harry’s _slave,_ a little voice in the back of his mind said quietly. He pushed it away, unwilling to explore that line of thought _at all_.

“No,” Harry said simply, shrugging. “No point. I saw what I needed to in the memories – he’d disliked the idea, and argued with Dumbledore about it, but when push came to shove, he didn’t find another way either. That’s when we went looking for other options and found the Ritual of Justice. We were reluctant to use it because of its historically patchy results, but…” Harry shrugged. “We were desperate, so…. And you know the rest of that story.” Tom nodded slowly, feeling overwhelmed with information. A thought occurred.

“There’s an easy way to test if you’re still a Parselmouth, master,” Tom said. Harry looked at him questioningly. “If I speak Parseltongue to you, and you understand it, then you should probably still be capable of it.” Harry considered it.

“It might be useful to know, I suppose,” he said slowly.

“ **Can you under-**?” Tom started asking in Parseltongue, but couldn’t even finish his sentence when severe pain shot into him from the collar. When it faded, leaving him panting and twitching, he found he’d half-slumped sideways onto the floor. Ow. That had hurt – he hadn’t had a punishment like that in…well, _weeks_.

“What happened? Are you alright?” Harry asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

“I’m fine.” Tom dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand, pushing himself back to leaning against the chair. “Parseltongue is a magical language – it appears that speaking it violates my restrictions on using magic. Did you understand it?”

“Yes, I did,” Harry told him, his voice still troubled but with a hint excitement. “Look, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to use Parseltongue – it’s a language, what can you do with a language? So you’re allowed to use it whenever.” He paused for a moment, then added an addendum. “That is, you’re allowed to use it whenever as long as it’s not for the purpose of hurting or killing a sentient being etc. Or getting a parseltongue-speaking being to do the same. And as long as you’re not being punished by not being allowed to speak. OK.” Tom found a smile pulling at his lips.

“OK,” he agreed. “Thank you, master,” he added, feeling like it was deserved. Not that he’d be using it much, of course, though he did wonder what had happened to Nagini when his soul was reformed. He wondered if he’d ever find out.

XXX

It was Christmas Day, around eight am. Harry knocked on his slave’s door. When there was no sound, he knocked again. Suddenly, he heard movement; the door opened a moment later.

“Master?” yawned Tom, sleepily rubbing at his eyes. He started to kneel, but Harry put out a hand, catching his elbow to stop him.

“It’s OK, you don’t need to kneel to me today. Or call me master. Just for today, though,” he clarified quickly. Tom looked a lot more awake suddenly, his crimson eyes sharpening.

“Was there something you wanted?” the man prompted after a short pause.

“Yeah. I’m about to go to the Weasleys, but...” Harry trailed off, biting his lip. He was re-thinking this – was it actually a good idea? But it was _Christmas_ , and Tom was going to be here on his own… He pulled Tom’s wand out of his back pocket. “Here.” Tom took it, frowning at him.

“Master?” he asked, a hopeful note in his voice. Harry’s lips quirked in the corner into a half-smile.

“So, I thought…you can use your wand today, until midnight tonight. Same rules apply as before.” Here, he injected more seriousness into his voice, wanting to make sure he was understood. “No performing magic which could harm a sentient being in _any_ way, if you damage something, fix it, and since I’m not going to be around to keep an eye on you, no leaving the house or entering my bedroom.” Smiling again now that the serious stuff was gone, he continued. “Merry Christmas, Tom.” Nodding sharply, he turned and started down the stairs.

“Harry?” he heard and paused, half-turning back. Tom was still standing in the doorway of his room, a soft look on his face. “ _Thank you_ and…Merry Christmas.” Harry felt his smile widen and his heart suddenly thump in his chest. Coughing, he thumped himself on the breastbone and nodded once more, turning back and headed towards the floo.

XXX

Tom looked down at the wand between his fingers, sure that an avaricious look was gleaming in his eyes. Casting _tempus_ , just because he could, he grinned, his expression sharp. It was just past eight in the morning. Harry had said he had until midnight…that was a good sixteen hours.

Sixteen hours of _magic_ , of freedom. Tom suddenly felt an up-swelling of warmth as he thought about how Harry had given him this gift so easily, despite everything he’d done. Despite everything he’d done with magic, he’d been given so few limits, really. Off the top of his head, Tom could think of at least five ways he could exploit the situation, but for some reason, he found he didn’t want to. Harry had _trusted_ him, leaving him here alone with permission to use magic. And, while Tom found it exceedingly strange…he didn’t want to betray Harry’s trust.

Maybe it was because he understood the sting of betrayal, the way it tore at his very being. Maybe he wouldn’t have understood if he was still Voldemort – learning of _Severus_ ’ treachery had just filled him with rage; it wasn’t until he had been made whole again that his feelings of bitterness and betrayal had risen to choke him on the mention of the man’s name. Whatever the reason…he felt Harry had been betrayed enough. Tom had felt almost…aggrieved on his master’s behalf when he had explained about Dumbledore’s perfidy in pretending to be a mentor while knowing that the pathway he was leading the boy down would ultimately end in his death…

Either way, Tom found himself avoiding the idea of doing anything that intentionally broke one of the rules, even if his method of doing so avoided punishment. He did, however, plan to work on his escape plan, even if there was that little voice in him that was starting to wonder if it was even worth his effort.

XXX

A few hours later, he had given up on his plan to work on the collar. Unfortunately, it seemed like he couldn’t actually take advantage of his time with his wand – he simply wasn’t far along enough in his understanding of its spellwork to produce an appropriate counter-enchantment. He’d tried, oh he’d tried, from his current understanding of the collar, but it had all been useless, some of it worse than useless – apparently the instruction to avoid harming anyone included himself, so when a couple of attempts had injured him, he’d earned punishments from the collar. He could only hope that he would be given access to his wand at a more opportune time when he would already have a counter-enchantment prepared. 

So, the question had been what to do. Of course, he had wanted to use magic; that was for certain. It was always _wonderful_ to feel his power move through his body, focusing through his wand and then producing what his mind had envisioned, no matter the actual task. In the end he had decided on something that would be a way to use magic effectively. How ironic was it, that on his ‘day off’, he had _chosen_ to do chores that he had spent the last few months griping about?

Yes, he knew very well how most people would react to the knowledge that the Dark Lord Voldemort was using his free time to clean a house. But honestly? It was the most useful thing he could think of to do. He was able to enjoy the feeling of casting spells, while at the same time reducing his work load for at least a week. More, in fact, he thought gleefully as he left some enchantments in various areas that would automatically clean any dust or dirt that came into contact with it. He had left the areas they habitually used free of magic, though, since if Harry realised what he had done, he might dispel the enchantments to increase Tom’s workload again.

No, cleaning charms and enchantments were _not_ something he’d particularly studied before, except for the purpose of cleansing a ritual area. Tom had hated doing it, but he’d actually gone and researched some useful spells in the library before starting his self-appointed task.

Still, his mood was steadily improving, a smile lingering on his lips as he felt the magic flowing through his veins. Added to his triumphant anticipation of the amount of free time he would have over the next week, and his mood was practically jubilant. Not to mention, of course, the slight high that using a lot of magic always gave him. He almost felt drunk on it all; a very pleasant change to normal life.

XXX

Harry played with a piece of wrapping paper, one of many that had been strewn all over the sitting room after the present-opening frenzy. It had been the usual Weasley chaos, presents flying every which way, Molly scolding one son after another as they intermittently hid, snatched and threw presents to annoy their siblings. Harry had been happy with his gifts that year, though in a way the real gift was being able to share the day with friends, and had been glad that his own gifts had been well-received.

The sounds of the Weasleys clamoured around him: a playful argument going on between George, Bill, Charlie and Ron over who was the best chess player; Hermione debating something with Percy and Fleur, all animosities over their individual positions during the war put aside for the day; Molly humming along to Celestina Warbeck in the kitchen; Arthur exclaiming over something or other (probably muggle related) to Ginny, who was looking desperate for a way out of the conversation. But in the midst of the noise, Harry felt like a lonely island, because he wasn’t actually _there_ with them, not entirely. Part of him was still at home, wondering what Tom was doing, how he was feeling being alone on today of all days. Because here Harry was, with friends, and Tom had no one.

Getting up, he decided to quickly pop back home to see how the man was getting on. He’d have to be back shortly for lunch, but at least he could have a quick visit. He told himself it was so he could see whether his slave had demolished the house in his absence, but knew that wasn’t the real reason. He quickly told Hermione what he was about to do, just so she could make sure no one worried. She looked at him searchingly, seeming to see more than Harry would have liked – an annoying habit of hers, to be fair – before nodding.

A quick floo trip and he was in the house. Using a Point Me spell, he quickly found Tom. To his surprise, he wasn’t doing anything of what Harry might have expected him to be doing. Not that he’d really thought about it, but he would have imagined Tom would have been, he didn’t know, trying to get out of the collar? Destroying things? Circling himself in rings of fire? Harry really hadn’t thought this through. But honestly, _cleaning_ would have been the _last_ thing on his list. That was what he was doing, though. With magic, of course, a quirk to his lips of pleasure as with a single wave of his wand, half a day’s worth of dust disappeared into nothingness. Harry couldn’t help but watch for a few moments, enraptured by the way the expression softened the lines of Tom’s face, making him look less beautiful, but more attractive – like a statue was beautiful, but a real person was attractive.

“Tom,” he said finally, quietly. The man jumped, nonetheless, spinning around with his wand out.

“Master,” he acknowledged, lowering his wand immediately. Harry half-smiled.

“You don’t have to call me that today, remember?”

“Oh, yes,” muttered Tom, looking away, his expression chagrined. Then he looked back, wariness in his eyes. “You’re not here to…take my wand away, are you?” he asked, sounding like he was trying to prepare himself for the disappointment. Harry immediately shook his head.

“No, I said midnight tonight, and I mean it. No, I was just…I wanted to know how you were getting on, here on your own.” Relief suffusing his red orbs, Tom half-smiled.

“I’ve been alone many times at Christmas, master – Harry. I appreciate the thought, but you need not worry.” Harry looked down, shuffling his feet.

“I know,” he admitted. “So have I. It’s just…I remember what it felt like to have no one at Christmas. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” When he looked back up, Tom’s eyes were softer than Harry had ever seen them.

“You need not worry, Harry,” Tom repeated quietly. “This year, I’m not alone.” Then, as if he hadn’t meant to say the last bit, colour rose on his cheeks and he half-turned away.

“Hey,” said Harry softly, his heart hurting as he thought about all the Christmases both of them had missed. He walked towards his companion, reached out, and hesitantly, wrapped his arms around the taller man’s torso, his head only just reaching above Tom’s shoulders.

Tom was as stiff as a board for what seemed like ages. Harry was about to let go when he started relaxing a bit, his arms encircling Harry like he was made of glass, touching rather than holding. They stood there for a few seconds before breaking apart, both of them bright red and avoiding each other’s gaze. Harry cleared his throat.

“Right. Um, I’m going back to the Weasleys, then. I’ll try to save you some of the lunch for later. OK, uh, bye.” So saying, he took off out of the room like a cat with his tail on fire. Had he looked back, he might have seen Tom standing there, a slightly wistful expression on his face.

XXX

Hours later, Harry returned to the house pleasantly tipsy, full and happy from a whole day spent with his friends. Going to the kitchen to drop off the bowls Molly had given him after he’d asked for leftovers, he found three items on the kitchen table. Tom’s wand, first of all. Harry was glad he wouldn’t have to chase the man down for it. That would _not_ have been a good end to the day. Then, there was a note sitting on a box. He looked at the note first.

 ~~Dear Master~~ ,

 ~~Dear Harry~~ ,

~~Master,~~

Harry,

Merry Christmas.

TmR

A smile coming onto Harry’s face, he opened the box. The smile slipped off his face a bit as he took in the item inside. What…? What did Tom think he’d do with a _knife_? It _was_ beautiful, though. Vaguely familiar, Harry had a feeling it might have been one of the items they’d found in a drawer while cleaning the disused rooms – Harry had said to get rid of it, but Tom had clearly got rid of it by…transfiguring it into something that was still similar, but completely different at the same time. Harry lifted it out carefully, feeling the weight of its handle and its perfect balance in his hand. There was another note inside, tucked underneath.

You never know when you’ll be without a wand

Huh. Was this as a result of their conversation about how Harry’s wand got broken? That was…strangely sweet. And so Tom. Who else would give him a weapon to maim people on Christmas Day? The smile back on his face, he inspected the knife more carefully. The jewelled handle that had used to be in place had been transfigured into a much more serviceable metal one without jewels, but instead with engraved swirls and patterns that were deep enough grooves to provide friction even in the event it was covered with…fluids.

About to draw it out of its sheath, he paused. He remembered Sirius saying, when they had been here all those years ago, that many of the items in the house were cursed. Sure, Harry’s command to Tom had forbidden him _using_ any magic which had the potential to harm someone, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t _leave_ magic in place that was harmful. Suddenly wary, he put it back in the box and started casting all the detection spells he knew.

A few minutes later, he felt slightly ashamed of himself – the knife was completely clean from what he could tell. The only thing that had been of note had been an ‘ever-sharp’ charm on the blade and a ‘no-accident release’ enchantment on the sheath. Taking the knife out again, he pulled off the decorated sheath.

The five-inch blade gleamed and glittered at him, its clearly razor-sharp edge glinting in the light as he turned it from side to side. Holding up the note that had been in the box, he tested its edge. The knife passed through the material as if it wasn’t there, not snagging for even a moment.

Harry put the knife back into the box, his lips unable to shift from their curved position. He really hadn’t expected Tom to give him something, but something inside him felt very warm that he had.

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for the chapter: casual mentions about the social expectations that slaves are sexually assaulted; clinical description of a wound; general nastiness about the treatment of slaves in this messed-up society.
> 
> *Oh Tom, you poor little lamb – you don’t realise how much of a hypocrite you are…
> 
> **This whole story is entirely canon. I kid you not. All except for how Voldemort and Nagini met, that is. I went on the wiki to find out what species of snake Nagini was, only to find…this.
> 
> Horcruxes – my theory of what they did to Tom in this fic. Here’s the definition of Psychopathy on Wikipedia: Psychopathy is traditionally a personality disorder characterized by persistent antisocial behavior, impaired empathy and remorse, and bold, disinhibited, and egotistical traits. Voldemort all over, right? But what about Tom Riddle? Charismatic, intelligent and a model student is what he’s described as, by everyone except for Dumbledore, at least. Not quite the same, I don’t think.
> 
> Personally, I could go both ways – first, that Tom Riddle was psychopathic/sociopathic from an early age, whether that was as a result of being conceived with Amorentia, or because of his childhood in the orphanage, or a mixture of both; the view we see of Tom is a carefully constructed mask which only Dumbledore sees through. Second, that Tom Riddle was a disturbed child, but not an unredeemable one, if he had been shown the right kind of care and given boundaries by someone who actually wanted the best for him. In this one, the ‘model’ student is still a mask, but less so. 
> 
> In the second case, which is the one I’m using for this fic, Tom Riddle does become psychopathic, but it’s a result of splitting his soul in half and placing it in the diary. After all, the diary is the first horcrux, perhaps from an accidental death, whereas the deaths of his father and grandparents for the ring are, by that point, very much intentional actions.
> 
> Subsequent horcruxes had less effect overall, because they were smaller parts, but bit by bit, they eroded his ability to think rationally, to plan properly and to care about anything other than himself. The exception being Nagini because of the reasons mentioned in this chapter and also because she was herself a horcrux, therefore part of him. 
> 
> Characterisation – OK, I’m a little nervous about what all of you are going to think about my development of their characterisation in this part, because it has moved on a lot since the first chapter, though more for Tom than for Harry. Here’s a little summary of my thoughts on the matter, if you’re interested.
> 
> Harry – he hasn’t changed as much – his initial problem with having Tom around was that he saw him as an enemy. Then, he started seeing him as an enemy who was different from Voldemort, but who he found physically attractive. Now, after Tom’s actions, he’s subconsciously changing that label from ‘enemy’ to ‘companion’. He’s not there yet, but that’s where it’s going. So he’s a confused little sausage because every so often he is reminded that Tom used to be Voldemort, and the actions he took as the Dark Lord aren’t suddenly annulled because he’s not that person anymore. But at the same time, he’s seeing clear evidence that Tom really isn’t Voldemort, and he wants to create an amicable relationship, for his own peaceful existence, if for no other reason. I see him as a character who would rather not rock the boat if he can avoid it – we see it repeatably that Harry is only antagonistic to people who were antagonistic to him first (which, incidentally, is why he’s not provoking Tom as much – Tom is being less antagonistic, so Harry doesn’t feel the same need to push at him).
> 
> Tom – he’s changed a lot. Thanks to having his horcruxes forcefully re-combined with his main soul piece (and yes, I’m including the destroyed ones, as I figure that destroying the horcrux just leaves the soul pieces floating around in ‘limbo’ rather than being consumed or something), he’s able to be introspective and self-analytical in a way that he hasn’t really done since he was sixteen. That, added to the fact that he’s had a lot of time to think, and a number of reality checks which have made him conclude that many of his actions were not…the best, means that he’s got a significantly different perspective by this point than in part 1. Also, it can’t be forgotten that he has basically not spoken to anyone but Harry since August. Not for any significant conversation, at least. Add into that the recognition that he is essentially undergoing Pavlov’s experiment – when he acts in accordance with his master’s will, he’s rewarded; when he acts against it, he’s punished – and the fact that he is coming to see Harry in a different light should be understandable.
> 
> Those are my thoughts, at least. Our boys still have a long way to go, and I promise you, it’s not going to be fluffy for long, so enjoy it while you can… :O


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ministry ball has arrived, and with it, more thoughts than Tom can really deal with. With the unexpected addition of another person to their lives, both Tom and Harry are in for a rocky time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, it's the Ministry ball :D - we finally get to see a bit more of other slaves in this world, and it's going to raise some difficult questions for both of our boys. 
> 
> Warning - this chapter is where the new tags start coming into play, though they will be even more applicable to next chapter. Please read the more detailed warnings in the end notes carefully if you suspect you might be triggered - stay safe! Also, it's going to get darker from here, though most of that won't be between Harry and Tom, I promise. Not in the next couple of chapters, anyway. *evil laugh* 
> 
> As always, enjoy the chapter and please tell me your thoughts :D

Tom yawned widely and stretched. Sitting in that library chair for hours was _not_ good on his back or shoulders. Fortunately, all the work the healer had done to repair the damage of the curse a while back had been very professional – his back actually felt better than it had before the whole event. Tom hadn’t realised how much sitting hunched over a desk as Lord Voldemort, planning the domination of the world, had created knots in his back muscles, but apparently it had.

Looking at the watch on his wrist that Harry had given him months ago, he saw that it was already past midnight. Deciding to call it a night, Tom packed his research away. With access to more books, it was proceeding much better than before, and Tom had hopes that he might make an important breakthrough in the next few nights if allowed to spend the time on it.

The enchantment was really complex, though. It wasn’t outside Tom’s capabilities to decode completely, at least he didn’t think so, but it was definitely master-level work, and he wasn’t certain he would have been able to create it from scratch, despite Arithmancy having been an interest of his even beyond school. He had never pursued a mastery in any subject, though he had studied some subjects enough to perhaps qualify for one – it simply hadn’t fit in with his plans. Now…now he wondered whether maybe he should have.

What would have happened if he had decided to pursue a Ministry career? Done a mastery first, maybe, to prove his superiority, then used his connections to enter into the Ministry at a decent level? Used that to advance to Minister, perhaps by the time he was thirty?

Well, he wouldn’t be a slave; that was certain. He probably wouldn’t have got to know Harry as much, either. Tom wondered why that thought filled him with some maudlin emotion. Why was he feeling like that? It would have been better all round – he would have been respected, admired, powerful. Harry would still have had his parents; he wouldn’t have had to grow up with those muggles and Dumbledore’s manipulations. Well, maybe still the latter unless Tom had managed to reduce his influence. He would have been a normal boy, nothing special. Nothing worthy of Minister Tom Riddle’s attentions. Why did that thought fill him with a bit of revulsion?

Tom pushed his confusing emotions to one side. He was tired – that was no doubt why. He needed to get to bed.

Walking down the stairs, he saw light coming up from the first floor – the sitting room, no doubt. He hesitated for a moment. Go down or go to bed? In the end, his feet made the choice for him, stepping down the stairs. Sure enough, the light was coming from the sitting room. Tom looked in, expecting to see Harry at his desk, busily studying despite technically being on holiday for the week. Instead, it took him a moment to spot the other man – he was sitting in an armchair by the fire, swirling whisky in a crystal glass and staring broodingly into the fire.

“Master,” started Tom, before being interrupted by another yawn. “It’s late,” he finished once his mouth cooperated with him again. “We’ve got the Ministry ball tomorrow – why don’t you go to bed?” The other man didn’t respond for a long moment, and Tom wondered if he should just go – leave Harry to his thoughts. Then he spoke.

“Do you ever think about what ifs?” he asked, a wistful note in his voice. Tom couldn’t help snorting – apparently they were both being affected by a maudlin moment, it seemed. The sound made Harry twist around to look at him. Tom shrugged.

“Doesn’t everyone?” he remarked flippantly. Harry turned back to look at the fire.

“I can’t seem to stop myself. The day after tomorrow will be the start of a New Year – a new millennium – and I can’t help thinking about the past. What if I’d made different choices, what if people had survived, what if things had been different…” He sounded lost, Tom thought. Maybe it was that vulnerable note in his voice that made Tom walk forward and kneel beside his master, deciding that looking into the fire alongside Harry would be better than being in front and forcing eye contact.

“If you’d made different choices, things would probably have been different,” Tom told him. “But that doesn’t mean they would have been _better_.”

“How can you say that?” Harry asked, his voice sounded a bit choked. “If things had been different, you might not have been a slave! And I might not have been a master,” he finished, his last statement a lot quieter than his previous. Tom wasn’t sure what he heard in Harry’s voice – longing, regret, desire… Whatever it was, it was complicated. “I would have thought you’d be happy with that,” Harry continued, looking down at Tom.

Tom opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused. How in Merlin’s name had they managed to both be thinking along similar lines that evening, he asked himself with some asperity? Because that question just brought up all the emotions he’d been pushing to one side.

“I need a moment to think, master,” he said instead. Harry just nodded and looked back at the fire, sipping his whiskey. Tom took more than a moment to order his thoughts, but eventually, he felt that they were as clear as he could make them at that moment.

“I don’t like being a slave, it’s true,” he started slowly. “I hate being out of control, I hate having to follow someone else’s orders…but I’ve been thinking too. And I’ve come to some conclusions. The decisions we made…whether we think they were a good idea now with hindsight…they made us who we are. And I might hate being a slave…but I’m starting to not hate being _your_ slave.” Well, that was a lot more honest than he’d intended. Harry was silent for a moment, then, moving slowly, he started stroking Tom’s hair. Tom half-closed his eyes in pleasure as the slight scratch of his scalp and the gentle tugging of his locks made him relax into the side of the chair. It felt better than he remembered and he wondered why he hadn’t pursued his idea to experiment before now.

“Is it bad if I say that I’m starting to not hate being your master, too?” Harry asked finally, in a low voice. Tom didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to.

They stayed like that for a while longer, each with his own thoughts, but companionable nonetheless. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, Harry took his hand away from Tom’s hair and they both stood, making their way to bed together in silence.

As he dropped off to sleep, Tom realised two things. First, moving to kneel by his master’s side had been something he hadn’t even thought about – and he didn’t know how he felt about that. Second, unlike before when the scent of Harry’s vulnerability had woken the predator within him, this time, it had made him feel…protective. And he didn’t know how he felt about that, either.

XXX

Harry was waiting for Tom, feeling awkward at the thought of seeing his slave. The morning after Christmas Day had been just as awkward, Harry recalled as he checked his dress robes for the third time, wondering how he was going to face his companion as thoughts of the previous night echoed in his mind. After Christmas he’d thanked Tom for the knife, the man not meeting his eyes, probably the memory of how Harry had hugged him playing across his vision as much as it was for Harry. In the end, his slave had just shrugged, muttering something about always having a weapon handy. Perhaps he’d do the same here. Or maybe he’d ignore their little heart to heart completely. Maybe that would be best.

In the end, Harry had decided to take Tom’s suggestion to heart, and was in fact carrying his knife now. He’d fashioned a way of fastening it to his calf: the sheath had proved to only release the knife within when he pulled it intentionally, so it was upside-down and easily accessible if he ever had a need. Because Tom had a point – most witches and wizards only ever thought of wands, and if Harry was going to be in the Aurors, it would probably be handy to have some means of escaping a situation, if he was ever disarmed. Maybe it would be a good idea for him to find someone to teach him how to _use_ a knife, though.

The week of holiday between Christmas and New Year’s had disappeared so quickly Harry wondered whether it had actually happened – he barely remembered anything that had happened, except for those times with Tom which _still_ made him blush at the thought of them. And now they were here – the evening he’d been dreading since Robards had first told him about it, had arrived.

“Tom, are you ready yet?” he called up the stairs from where he was waiting in the sitting-room.

“Almost, master!” came the reply. Harry sighed. What was taking the man so long? He just had to put on his dress robes and put a comb through his hair, didn’t he? 

“What took you so long?” Harry asked snappily when his slave finally appeared.

“I had to take a shower, master,” Tom replied neutrally. Eyeing his hair which _did_ look a little damp, Harry decided that it would be unfair of him to take his nervousness out on his slave who had actually, for once, done nothing to deserve it. Especially after what they had shared together the previous night. Or at Christmas. And he wasn’t thinking of either of those situations because they would probably put him even more off-balance.

“Fine.” He took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself.

“Master?” Harry looked at Tom to see him lifting a hand, as if to reach it out. Momentarily curious as to whether he would do so or not, Harry wasn’t sure if he felt disappointment when the man let it drop. “Just…be yourself. If you’re trying to act relaxed, it will probably come off as awkward. Be friendly, smile, but don’t try to pretend you love being there. Remember, they _want_ you there, regardless of how you behave, because of what you symbolise.” Strangely enough, those words _did_ reassure Harry. Sure, normally he hated being treated differently because of his fame, but when he had to go to this thing because of it…well, it was reassuring to know that unless he behaved _really_ badly, he’d probably be forgiven for most things simply because of who he was. Feeling like a slight weight had been lifted off his shoulders, Harry felt some concern rise in him for his companion.

“How are _you_ feeling about it? It’s not too late to change your mind and not come.” Tom shook his head.

“I appreciate the offer, master, but I will be fine as long as people ignore me for the most part.” A flash of panic flickered through his eyes as he flicked his gaze up to meet Harry’s. “You’re not intending on letting anyone else… _touch_ me, are you?” Harry frowned, then his eyes went wide as Tom’s meaning registered.

“No, of course not. You’re _my_ slave – not the plaything of anyone else.” Harry wondered if the possessiveness he heard in his own voice was as clear to Tom as it was to him… He cleared his throat awkwardly. “OK, then. Come here,” he instructed, holding out a hand that then touched Tom’s collar as soon as he came close enough. Stepping into the green flames, he called out the name of that year’s New Year’s Ball venue.

Apparently the Greengrasses had offered their manor as accommodations this year. Harry had thought they were Voldemort supporters, but apparently not. To be fair, his supposition had been based on the fact that the eldest daughter of the family had been in Slytherin with Malfoy, rather than any actual knowledge of the people. He guessed, though, that he wasn’t the only one who had made the connection, and that the Greengrasses were trying to distance themselves from people, who had perhaps been business partners at least before being enslaved, by clearly throwing their lot in with the Ministry.

Stepping out of the floo and using a quick spell to clean both himself and his slave off, Harry took a moment to admire Tom. In neat, but not ornate, charcoal robes with green trimming, he cut a dashing figure. The collar on his neck only managed to set off its graceful swan-like lines, and with his eyes trained on the floor, he looked the picture of a demure slave. Harry marvelled once again at his acting abilities – he had been a bit thrown off-balance when Tom had last brought out this persona, when the lawyers had visited. Now, he knew what to expect, but still couldn’t help the impressed expression from lifting his eyebrows slightly.

Quickly looking away, he pretended it was from looking at the elegant receiving room. A lady with white-blonde hair came towards him, a polite smile on her face.

“Mr Potter,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m so glad you could make it.” Closer, Harry realised he recognised her – he’d only gone to school with her for six years, after all.

“Miss Greengrass,” he murmured, taking her hand and kissing the air above it. “Thank you for inviting me.” They had, actually – Robards had given him the invitation once he had agreed to going. It was very tasteful, done in cream and gold with curling handwriting. Greengrass just tittered politely.

“Of course! We wouldn’t dream of leaving out the Man-who-Conquered from our invitation list.” Harry felt his smile become rather fixed. And _this_ was why he hated these kinds of events. It was Slughorn’s parties all over again, except worse. Greengrass continued. “Come, let’s clear the area for other guests to arrive.” Sure enough, the flames were turning green behind Harry and he quickly got out of the way before another couple were deposited in the receiving room, a man and a woman Harry didn’t recognise this time.

Putting out his arm politely, Greengrass looped hers through and they walked out of the room. Harry was aware of Tom following by the slight movement in his peripheral vision; when he turned his head slightly, he saw the man following a step behind, his eyes downcast, his hands folded neatly in front of him. All in all, thought Harry as he turned his attention back to the path they were walking and small-talk with the woman on his arm, it was as far from Tom’s normal demeanour as one could go. Strangely, Harry found he much preferred Tom’s generally grumpy, sometimes border-line defiant behaviour – it was more honest than this pretence. Though, things _had_ been changing recently in that respect…

His thoughts were interrupted by turning a corner to reveal the ballroom. About five times bigger than the one at Grimmauld Place, Harry was momentarily surprised by its sheer _vastness_. The ceiling stretched up at least two floors and one side of it was entirely covered in mirrors, giving the impression of even _more_ space. The height was needed, however, because of the sheer mass of people milling around the floor. The only two areas that weren’t packed were the dance floor which was in the middle – a large circle of space – and the tables which curved in a horseshoe shape around the edge of the room, backing onto the gardens beyond.

Greengrass led him past the tables first, taking him to the table in the middle of the horseshoe, the one with its back to the gardens. One pale arm elegantly indicating a specific seat, Harry spotted his name.

“As one of our guests of honour, you’re here with the Minister and the current Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Madame Bullwark. Your slave can kneel behind you during the meal, but at other times, it’s at your discretion whether you would like him to stay close to you or remain here.” Harry was rather impressed how neither voice nor facial expression changed from its polite pleasantness when Tom was mentioned. Harry wasn’t sure whether that was simply because she really didn’t care, or whether she was just that good at hiding her true emotions. For now, though…

“He’ll stay with me until dinner, at least,” Harry decided. Frankly, in a situation like this, he’d rather keep Tom close where he could see what was happening. Besides, it might be useful to get the man’s impression afterwards of what he thought of the people.

“Very well. Come, I’ll introduce you to some people.”

“Sure, just…Greengrass?”

“Daphne, please.”

“OK, _Daphne_. I was wondering…why did you greet me? Did you choose to do it, or…?” Greengrass – Daphne – paused for a moment and there was a crack in her mask for only an instant before it became the same porcelain mask she had shown from the start.

“We thought it would be best to greet you with someone with whom you were already partially familiar, not to mention of a similar age.” With that, she smiled once more, the expression as polite and _empty_ as always. What a Slytherin answer, Harry decided privately as they walked towards the throng of people. It answered his question without actually answering it at all. Spotting people on the edge of the crowd already sending him glances while talking to their partners, Harry resigned himself to shaking hundreds of hands and repeating the same conversation over and over again. Be friendly, but be yourself, he reminded himself. You can do it.

XXX

Tom kept close to his master, though tried to avoid touching him as much as possible. It wasn’t always possible – the area was completely packed with people. In a way, Tom wished his master had left him by the tables, but he’d probably be kneeling for a while anyway – no need to wish that to start sooner.

From what he could tell, it was a normal one of these socialising events – full of boring people who only had boring things to talk about with other, equally boring, people. He could hear the irritation and boredom in his master’s voice as he repeated a conversation about how the Ministry was becoming much more stable for the nth time. Yes, the Ministry had everything in hand. Yes, they were working on stabilising things which had been upset by the war and they were making good progress. Yes, he would definitely be voting in Kingsley as Minister in January – he was doing such a good job as Interim Minister. No, there was nothing to be concerned about when it came to the former Death Eaters: the Ministry was definitely in control, here, look at how obedient his slave was. And so on. Not that he said the last part. Not out loud, anyway. 

Tom wondered at one point whether his master’s employer had taken him aside at some point to tell him which talk points the Ministry wanted to cover, or whether this was just all his own initiative. Tom suspected the former; if it was the latter, he would be impressed. There had been a few more…interesting…conversations. One of which had been with another slave-owner who had brought his own slave with him. He had shown off the woman like a prize horse, talking loudly about her _attributes_ while running his hand suggestively down her side.

Her head had been down the entire time and when her master had touched her, she had shivered violently, clearly not daring to flinch, but fearful all the same. Tom’s master had been clearly uncomfortable, replying politely, but distantly, and disengaging from the conversation as much as he could without being rude. Fortunately, he had also refused to ‘show off’ his own slave’s features, though Tom had been aware of the other man’s eyes raking him as if imagining him without his robes. The thought making _him_ shiver, Tom was very glad when his master soon started a conversation with someone else.

After that encounter, Tom realised, darting looks around when he was sure he wouldn’t be observed, that there were actually _many_ slaves here. It seemed like every third person his master spoke to had a slave in tow. Some were clearly injured; others flinched every time their masters moved. Some seemed better off, but when their masters spoke of them, they were as casual and impersonal as if speaking of a dog. Of course, Tom’s master did the same, on the rare occasion that he was forced into talking about his slave, but Tom knew it was an act. He supposed that it could be an act on the part of the other masters too, but somehow he doubted it in most cases.

He had actually recognised a fair number of the slaves. Not all of them, by any means, but there were a few marked Death Eaters in the crowd. He hadn’t seen any of the…more volatile. Bellatrix, of course, was nowhere to be seen – he’d be very surprised if her master would let her out of his or her house anytime soon. The Carrows were also not in evidence, as far as he had seen. Rabastan was another one missing, though since he’d gone a bit insane with his brother’s death – well, more insane than he had been after Azkaban – he was another one Tom was sure was chained up in his master’s house. Lucius was one he was somewhat surprised _not_ to see – his pale hair should make him stand out, but it wasn’t in evidence. Tom would have thought that whoever his master was would have wanted to show him off, and he wouldn’t have been one of the ones to defy the collar – the man had always been curbed by the threat of pain. Still, maybe his master wasn’t present? Of the masters, he’d only recognised a few, and only by face.

He’d spotted Tiberius Nott, almost unrecognisable with his beard shaven and his hair cropped short, his head as bowed as any other’s in the place. Tom reflected that he’d never seen the man look so old, not even when he’d been recovering from the Cruciatus Curse. He was following a woman Tom knew to be one of the Wizengamot members. Something or other Gamp, wasn’t it?

Gregory Goyle Senior had been another, his arms mottled with bruises and dressed in rags. Never having been the most intelligent or enthusiastic of Lord Voldemort’s Inner Circle, he’d nonetheless been loyal, and as the Dark Lord, Tom had forgiven him his drawbacks because of that. Something in Tom tugged at something in his chest to know how he had repaid that loyalty – leading the man down the path to enslavement. His master, Tom didn’t recognise.

Alistair Jugson had been one who didn’t look particularly badly off, but that impression was belied a moment later when he had accidently bumped into his master’s shoulder. The man had whirled on him, his wand out, casting a spell which made him waver on his feet. Tom suspected that he would have been whimpering, but he clearly had a silencing curse on him, preventing any noise from escaping.

Another person approached Tom’s master, another familiar face trailing behind his shoulder. Having seen the elder Nott earlier in the evening, it was almost a surprise to see his son here as well. The younger Nott – what was his name again? Tiberius? No, it wasn’t the same as his father. He was pretty sure it started with a T, though – had never been marked. No, while he would have been marked had Lord Voldemort had a use for him, he had instead been proving his worth to the cause throughout his first year out of Hogwarts. He was the same age as Harry, wasn’t he, Tom thought. Then, realising he’d slipped out of his persona, he quickly buried himself again, allowing his thoughts to continue behind the mask.

“Smith,” Tom’s master said, his voice tainted with a hint of dislike.

XXX

“Potter,” Smith replied with a kind of false jocularity which immediately grated on his nerves, not that this particular person ever failed to do that. They’d never got on well at Hogwarts, and Harry was certain that trend was likely to continue. “I see you’ve got yourself a slave,” he continued, nodding towards Tom. Harry found himself inexplicably bristling, much as he had when that odious Mr Dogbane had been eyeing up Tom like a piece of meat, even while he fondled his own, clearly abused, slave.

“I see you’ve got one too,” he replied, a note of challenge as he nodded towards the figure at Smith’s shoulder. He recognised the man as one of the Slytherins in his year at Hogwarts – Nott, he thought. What was his first name? Terry? No, Theodore, he realised, pulling the information from somewhere deep in his memory. He looked awful – pale and gaunt. And was that a bruise on his cheek? “What have you been doing to him – he looks terrible?” Harry asked, voicing his thoughts. He was careful to keep any note of concern out of his voice: while he didn’t think he would be accused of being a Death Eater sympathiser, he’d rather not have the Ministry looking too deep into what he was doing with Tom – he didn’t think they’d entirely approve, especially considering who Tom had been. Smith just waved a hand nonchalantly.

“Nothing he doesn’t deserve, Death Eater scum that he is.” Harry raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise.

“From what I recall of him, he was never one of those who ran with Malfoy’s gang of baby Death Eaters; I hardly imagine him becoming some sort of monster in two years.” Smith glared at him, the false-jocularity dropping completely.

“You can hardly talk, _Potter_. You’re the one we have to thank for this, after all. Besides, since you’ve got one of your own, I hardly think you can preach from a pedestal.” He sneered, his expression ugly. “I bet you’re just jealous because I got one of the young ones. How much did your clapped-out old slave cost you? A hundred galleons?” Harry decided to ignore that with a great force of will – this was _not_ the place to break out into a duel, no matter how much he wanted to call Smith out. He wasn’t even sure if he was angrier about the insult to himself or to Tom, and didn’t want to think about what _that_ meant.

“My Tom is worth at least ten times whatever paltry sum you paid for Nott,” Harry hissed quietly, his eyes narrowed. “And when he’s released, I hope that he finds a way to pay you back for whatever you’ve been doing to him that’s over and above what _Death Eater scum_ like him _deserve_.” There. That should communicate his anger clearly enough without inviting further scrutiny into his _own_ situation. Smith stared at him, clearly taken aback by his fervent rebuttal. Even Nott had glanced up, his eyes wide, though he quickly dropped them as soon as he realised Harry had seen him looking, flinching in clear expectation of punishment. Harry pretended he hadn’t seen anything.

“Well, Potter,” Smith started, obviously not sure what to say. “I guess we’ll find out.” His comeback was weak, and he evidently realised it, making himself scarce shortly after.

When the gong rang for dinner a few moments later, Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. His hand felt wrung dry after all the times it had been shaken by a variety of grips. Harry hoped never to have to experience quite so many hand-holds ever again – he wasn’t sure which was worse: the damp ones that felt like limp fish; or the tight ones which seemed to be used by men trying to prove that they were stronger than the Man-who-Conquered. Fortunately, air-kissing the hands of the women had been a lot more bearable, though there had been a few women who had clearly preferred shaking hands to having them kissed. Harry couldn’t care less if it was one way or the other – kissing hands was something he’d had to pick up fairly recently, anyway.

Every time someone had congratulated him on his defeat of You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry had amused himself wondering what their reactions might have been if they’d known that the very man they were congratulating him for conquering was standing behind his shoulder. Other than that, though, amusement had been in short supply. Fortunately, he had been placed next to Kingsley. His other dinner partner was not so familiar, merely a face he remembered having seen in the Prophet a couple of times. Unfortunately, since they were on the top table, they had no one opposite and therefore were completely open to being stared at by anyone on the other tables.

Politely pulling the chair out for Madame Bullwark, Harry smiled at her while previously thinking that the name really didn’t suit her – she was a petite woman with delicate limbs, rather than the Millicent Bulstrode kind of build he might have expected. Then again, before she smiled at and thanked him, her face had looked like it could weather a thousand storms, so perhaps it was appropriate… A slave settled on the floor behind her chair. Harry frowned – he was pretty sure the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. Putting it out of his mind, he seated himself, becoming aware of Tom settling down behind his own chair. Unsurprisingly, the place behind Kingsley was empty.

Once he was seated, the Minister leaned towards Harry so he could speak without shouting over the noise of people still finding their seats. Apparently, it was only the special guests on the top tables who had been shown their seats, though Harry suspected everyone had at least known the vague area in which to look – there wasn’t enough crossing of the dance floor to indicate that it was completely unknown for everyone else.

“I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done here, Harry,” Kingsley murmured to him. Harry turned and looked at him with some surprise.

“What do you mean?” The man gave him a knowing look.

“I mean reassuring people, supporting me as Minister, expressing your belief in the Ministry. That sort of thing.”

“Oh,” replied Harry, shrugging. “That was what you and Robards wanted me to do, wasn’t it?” Kingsley raised an eyebrow.

“Well, yes, but…” he hesitated, looking a bit embarrassed. “We didn’t think you’d be so…good at it.” Harry gave him a wry grin.

“No, I bet you didn’t. You just wanted me to come for the image, didn’t you? Just the fact that the Man-who-Conquered was here at a Ministry sponsored ball, chatting convivially with the Minister would be enough to boost your ratings. You didn’t realise I’d figure out your motives.” Kingsley looked even more embarrassed.

“…perhaps.” Well, at least he was honest about it. “How did you figure it out?” Harry raised both eyebrows, some of the jocularity slipping off his face, his eyes revealing his seriousness.

“Two things. First, I’ve been in the public eye for years – I know how important image is, even if I haven’t always been very good at managing mine. Plus, I’ve experienced enough manipulation to know when someone’s using it on me. Second,” he gestured to his slave, “I talked to Tom. He was able to help me figure out the details.”

“Huh,” Kingsley replied, his eyes calculating. “It seems I underestimated you, Harry. I apologise for trying to manipulate you.” Harry looked searchingly into his eyes. He _seemed_ sincere.

“It’s OK,” he said finally. “Just, next time, be straight with me, OK?” Kingsley showed some surprise.

“You’d be willing to do more publicity later?” Harry nodded slowly.

“As long as I agree with the direction of the Ministry, I’m willing to help support it. I wasn’t willing to be Scrimangeor’s poster-boy because I deeply disagreed with some of his policies. So far, what I’ve seen of the outfit you’re running and the direction you’re going in…I approve overall. And if I’ve learnt anything over the last few years of going from public hero to Undesirable no.1, I’ve got to either direct the train of public opinion or just go along with it for a ride. And going along for the ride isn’t as relaxing as it sounds!” Kingsley stared at him.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this!” he said finally. Harry shrugged. It was true – after he’d discussed the whole situation with Tom, he’d ended up spending time thinking about maybe needing to be a bit more Slytherin about things. He didn’t want to _be_ a Slytherin, but he did feel like he’d been a bit too laissez-faire when it came to his public image, and if he was going to be using his public image to support the Ministry, he first wanted to be sure it was _worth_ supporting, and then to know that he _could_ support it.

“Mind you,” Harry added hastily, “that doesn’t mean I want to do this sort of thing on a regular basis!” Hearing the slight panic in his voice, Kingsley laughed out loud.

“No, I’d imagine not,” he replied with amusement.

Further conversation was cut off as, with a chime of his glass that somehow managed to echo through the hall and stem all the conversations going on, the Greengrass patriarch rose to give a speech.

XXX

Tom knelt behind his master’s chair, one part of his mind tuning into the speech, another part staring at the slave beside him. He recognised him, oh he recognised him. Joseph Travers. One of the few followers who had been truly passionate about the pureblood cause: Lord Voldemort had seen him as a useful tool, a wind-up doll to stoke with speeches about the rights of purebloods to rule over all others due to their clear superiority, and then turn towards his enemies and watch him go.

Now, Tom felt little but pity for him. He’d already suffered fourteen years of Azkaban and dementors for his actions in the first war; now, if the collars counted years of imprisonment as being years of following him, he could be looking at thirty or so more as a slave. He’d be an old, old man when he was released. And if what he was seeing was the result of just seven months of it, by the time he was released, there’d be nothing of the man left.

He was pale, emaciated. His limbs seemed to have a permanent tremor, whether it was from fear, pain, hunger or something else, Tom didn’t know. He also had a few more scars than he’d had the last time Tom had seen him, in the bowels of the Ministry. He’d been one of those who’d turned on Tom once they’d realised what had happened. Still, Tom couldn’t hold it against him, in a way – look at what had happened to him as a result of it.

As the meal progressed, the true depth of his subjugation became apparent. Every so often, his master would reach back with an item of food in her hand. Every time that happened, Travers would kiss her hand with a murmured ‘thank you master’ and then would take the food gently with his teeth, swallowing it quickly, desperately. Tom recognised that tone of voice. He’d heard it said after he’d tortured the man for a failure and then had generously said that he would give him another chance. A tone of voice which meant he was thankful that the punishment had finished and that he would be given a chance to redeem himself. To hear it now…well, that spoke of how much the woman he belonged to had broken him.

Fortunately, he’d been aware of the fact that he probably wouldn’t have anything to eat at the dinner, so he’d eaten before. He was thankful for that fact as it spared him the humiliation of being hand-fed by his master. Though, given the desperation with which Travers was gulping the food he was being given intermittently by his master, Tom had to wonder when _he_ had last eaten.

Finally, the meal finished and the dancing started. There were only a couple of hours until midnight, after which, hopefully they would be able to go. Before then, though, it was time to dance. Harry stayed for a moment after his companions had disappeared, Kingsley gallantly asking Madame Bullwark to waltz with him.

“How are you doing, Tom?” Harry asked in an undertone.

“I’m fine, master,” Tom replied. Shaken slightly by what had become of his followers, but fine.

“You don’t want anything to eat or drink?” Tom considered.

“A little water, please master,” he decided. Harry passed him his glass which was filled with water. Tom was too grateful to not have been hand-fed to be concerned that Harry had drunk from the same glass.

“I’m going to go and mingle,” his master said eventually, taking the glass from him. “Would you prefer to come with me or to stay here?” Tom considered it.

“I’d prefer to stay here, master,” he replied eventually. Harry nodded.

“OK, but I’ll keep an eye – make sure nothing happens. Just remember, you’re mine, not anyone else’s - if anyone tries anything, just avoid them and I’ll sort it out later.”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied, bowing his head once more. He felt a gentle hand stroke through his hair once, and then it was gone. He supposed that if he could take anything home from this interminable evening, it was that he _definitely_ preferred to have Harry as a master, rather than any of the people they’d seen so far.

XXX

After mingling for a while, glad-handing not a few people and dancing with a number of women, Harry spotted Hermione dancing with another man, not Ron. She didn’t look particularly happy – he recognised that polite smile on her face. He walked over and interrupted the man’s monotonic diatribe.

“May I cut in?” he asked. The man turned to him angrily, but the emotion was quickly replaced by surprise.

“Mr Potter! Uh, of course,” he replied, passing Hermione over without a yea or nay from her. She rolled her eyes at his quickly disappearing back, placing her hands in Harry’s and turning to him with a real smile.

“Thanks for ‘rescuing’ me,” she told him, rolling her eyes again. “He was a real bore, and a chauvinist at that. If he wasn’t one of the Ministry’s biggest donors, I’d have dropped out within a few minutes. As it was, I was considering retiring to the ladies room to get rid of him.”

“Where have you been all evening? I didn’t see you at the head table.” She raised an eyebrow.

“ _I’m_ not the ‘Man-who-Conquered – I was at a table with a mixture of Ministers and big donors.” She sighed theatrically. “No rest for the wicked – I’ve been _working_ all evening.” Harry made a horrified face.

“The kind of working which doesn’t involve _books_? Terrible.” He grinned as she paused in the dance to smack him on the shoulder.

“Shush, you.”

“Is Ron not with you?” Harry asked – he hadn’t seen that shock of red hair all evening. Hermione shook her head.

“No, he hates these kinds of events. I didn’t have the heart to put him through it when his family is having a New Year’s party of their own.” Harry nodded. Frankly, he’d rather be there too.

They danced for a moment in silence.

“Can you believe it’s almost a new millennium?” Hermione asked him softly, he tone a mixture of sad, wistful and something else he couldn’t name.

“Not really,” Harry replied, his voice similarly quiet. “These last few years…they seemed like they’d never end at times.” Hermione made a sound of agreement.

“Do you know the muggles are worried that when the clocks strike midnight, all the computers are going to have a problem?” she asked a moment later with some amusement. Harry raised his eyebrows and smiled at her.

“No, I didn’t know. Though, to be fair, I’ve barely _touched_ a computer – Dudley had one, but the closest I got to it was dusting it.” Hermione gave him the look of sadness and awkwardness which she always wore when he mentioned the Dursleys. It was one reason he didn’t mention them much – no one ever knew what to say in response. Except Tom, he realised. Out of everyone, he would probably be the most likely to understand. Sure, he hadn’t said much the last time they talked about it, but then Harry had shut the conversation down pretty quickly. At least he hadn’t had the normal emotions of pity, sadness, awkwardness or disbelief which had generally characterised all the other people he had spoken to about it.

They continued dancing in silence. Harry hesitated to say something that had been on his mind for a while. Sure, they’d talked at the Weasleys – he’d asked how her post-NEWTs degree was going (well), how her job was (stressful, busy, but good in general), but he hadn’t asked about her coming home crying. Not with all the Weasleys around. At the end of the piece of music, Harry pulled Hermione off to one side, deciding to ask, finally. They sat down at a random table, watching the rest of the people twirl in pairs, or chat to one side of the dance floor.

“Hermione…” Harry started, turning to look at her. “I wasn’t trying to listen in, I promise, but Ron was on the floo with me when you came home a few weeks ago. You were crying… Is everything OK?” She was quiet for a few moments before sighing.

“Look around, Harry. Look at all the slaves here. Do you call that justice, what’s happening to them?” Harry was silent this time, because he knew the answer, but he didn’t like to admit it. Hermione looked at him, and could tell what he was thinking, even if he wouldn’t say it. “Exactly. It’s not justice; it’s revenge, it’s abuse.”

“But Lady Magic is the one who started it again,” objected Harry weakly, not disagreeing. Not _able_ to disagree after what he’d seen that evening.

“I know. And we might not be able to set the slaves free, I accept that. What I don’t accept is Kingsley saying that we can’t change the way slavery is done.” Harry frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean putting more regulations in to clarify what is acceptable treatment and what isn’t. I mean not just leaving almost five hundred people to become traumatised simply because the limit is on permanent physical injury, not mental. I mean that even if the Death Eaters did terrible things, _we are no better if we allow this_.” Harry was taken aback by her fervour, though he really shouldn’t have been – he’d seen this when they were at school with the house elves. But this time…this time he understood it on a deeper level.

“Is that why you were called a ‘Death Eater sympathiser’? Because you said all that?” Hermione shrugged.

“That, and because I’m trying to bring the slaves under the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.” Harry was surprised.

“How does that work?” She shrugged again, this time half-smiling.

“Well, my argument is that since they’re not considered human, but yet they are magical, they should fall under my department.” Harry raised his eyebrows.

“How’s that working out for you?” The half-smile dropped.

“Not well,” she admitted. “Currently, they’re under the Ministry Department for Corrections since they’re considered to have committed at least the crime of conspiracy to commit terrorism, since they wouldn’t have been enslaved if they hadn’t supported Voldemort in some way. I’ve spoken to Kingsley about changing their overseeing department, but he’s…well, he doesn’t seem particularly motivated to help me.”

“He did say in the hospital wing that he didn’t want to waste effort on those who had tried to tear down our society,” Harry remembered. Hermione nodded.

“And he’s living up to that. He’s said that if I can get the head of the Corrections department to agree. But…Dogbane’s got a slave of his own, and I don’t think he wants anything to change in the way he can treat her - I hear her whimpering when I walk past his office sometimes. He’s the one that accused me of being a sympathiser.”

“Dogbane,” repeated Harry, the memory of meeting that odious man earlier that day resurfacing. “He’s your counterpart?”

“Yes, do you know him?” She asked curiously. Harry shook his head.

“No, but I had the dubious pleasure of meeting him earlier.” He grimaced. “I don’t think you’ll get very far with him – he looked Tom up and down like a piece of meat: something he could buy and take a chunk out of.” Hermione frowned at him.

“Tom’s here? Where is he?” Harry waved vaguely in the direction of where he’d been sitting at the head table.

“I thought he’d be better staying where he was, out of the way.”

“Uh, Harry?” Hermione said, her voice concerned.

“What?”

“Look.” Harry looked over and swore. There was a drunk-looking man heading directly towards where he’d left Tom. He quickly stood up and made his way over.

By the time he’d reached them, the man was slurring at Tom drunkenly, making a grab at his hair. Harry felt a hot pang of anger burn in his stomach at the sight. What did this idiot think he was doing with _Harry’s_ slave?

“Loo’ at me, Deasss Eater,” the man slurred. Tom hadn’t reacted to his presence at all, except to shift his head slightly out the way every time the man tried to grab him.

“What do you think you’re doing, touching my property?” Harry demanded, voice strident. He heard a disapproving ‘Harry!’ from behind him, but just shot Hermione a quick look saying ‘don’t interfere’. She subsided for now, trusting him. The man looked towards him, the movement in his inebriated state causing his whole body to lurch around. He had to put a hand out to a chair to stop himself from falling over. “Tom, come here,” Harry ordered, keeping an eye on the stranger, and his hand prepared to withdraw his wand if necessary. His slave rose gracefully and hurried over to him, his head bowed.

“W’rs he gone?” the stranger asked, looking around his feet in overly exaggerated movements. “G’nna r’port him – din’t obey commands.” Seeing as they’d attracted a small audience of onlookers, Harry decided he needed to play the part.

“He _was_ following commands,” Harry snapped. “ _My_ commands, which are the only ones which matter to him. I told him not to respond to anyone but myself and not to allow anyone to touch him. You, sir, were out of line, touching another man’s property without permission.” There were a couple of mutters of ‘well said’ from the peanut gallery, so Harry felt satisfied that he’d played his part well enough. The man swayed on his feet, then lumbered off without another word. Nodding in relief that the situation had been defused well enough, Harry turned and led both Hermione and Tom away from the onlookers who had turned to chat amongst themselves.

When they were far enough away for them not to be able to be overheard, Harry turned to Tom.

“Are you OK?” he asked with concern.

“I’m fine, master,” the man replied smoothly. Harry looked at him for a moment longer, but saw no signs that he _wasn’t_ actually fine. He shrugged.

“Looks like you’d better stay with me for the rest of the evening. Avoid any potential problems before they start.” He looked up to see Hermione looking at him thoughtfully.

“Hermione?” he asked, half-dreading the answer. She just shook herself and then gave him a small smile.

“I’d better get back to work, Harry. My department won’t gain donations by itself, you know…” so saying, she gave him a quick hug and disappeared before he knew what had happened. Harry turned to share an exasperated look with Tom but the man was looking at the ground playing the part of the perfect slave.

XXX

Finally, the time had arrived. Tom lingered on the edge of the dance floor as his master along with others celebrated the New Year with a countdown, indoor fireworks and then singing Auld Lang Syne. Since it was also a new millennium, not to mention the end of a war, the celebrations were all the more fervent. When his master came to him shortly after the jubilation had started to wind down, however, Tom was relieved to find out that they were going to soon take their leave.

“I need to just speak to Kingsley and our hosts, and then we can go,” he said. Tom bowed his head in acknowledgement, and then stuck to his position just behind his master’s shoulder as the man found the necessary people.

Finally, everyone had been spoken to and they were heading back towards the receiving room. Fortunately, Tom had taken note of the route they had taken, so when his master faltered at a couple of points, he was able to direct them. Flooing home, they both let out sighs of relief, Tom allowing himself to shed his persona completely for the first time all evening.

“It’s good to be home, isn’t it?” Harry asked, a note of pleasure in his voice as he stretched, his hands high in the air, lengthening his spine and stretching his muscles.

“It is, master,” Tom agreed, surprised that actually yes, this place was ‘home’ now.

“You did really well,” Harry said, his tone impressed. “I still can’t believe you managed to not react when that Madame Bullwark started listing all the punishment methods she’d been using on her slave and giving me tips on how to make you submit completely.” Tom grimaced. _That_ conversation had been particularly hard to bear, especially when he’d had the evidence of Travers’ complete submission to prove that her methods _worked_. 

“What a way to spend a birthday, though,” Tom remarked without thinking. Harry whirled around, his eyes wide.

“It’s your birthday?!” he asked loudly. Tom looked at him and raised an eyebrow, confused at his fervour.

“Yes, master. Well, yesterday, really, since we’ve just crossed into the New Year.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tom just shrugged. He really didn’t understand why this seemed to be such a big deal for Harry.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” was his honest reply. There was a silence.

“Huh, I suppose you wouldn’t,” his master replied thoughtfully. There was another silence. “Well, we’ll celebrate it tomorrow when you wake up. We could go out to a restaurant – I’d suggest the muggle world. Or we could go see something interesting, visit a museum or art gallery or something…” The confusion Tom was feeling must have been showing on his face. “Just think about it, OK? What do you want for breakfast tomorrow? Or later today, I suppose.”

“Uh,” Tom had rarely felt quite so inarticulate, but Harry’s offer after the evening they had had, had set him completely off-balance. “Pancakes?” he half-asked, half-suggested. When Harry had made pancakes that time before, Tom had really enjoyed them, so it seemed like a safe bet. His master smiled at him.

“Pancakes it is. Just sleep until you want to wake up – they don’t require much prep so I’ll make them when you’re ready.” He hesitated. “I guess it’s goodnight, then.” Tom nodded, still confused about the whole situation.

“Goodnight, master,” he replied. Harry nodded and then turned to leave. Pausing at the threshold of the room, he half-turned back.

“Just…Happy Birthday, Tom.” Then, disappearing before Tom could reply, he left his slave standing in the living room, staring after him in even more confusion, and just a hint of a warm feeling.

XXX

The next morning both of them woke late. Harry quickly had a shower and got dressed in some reasonably casual clothes. He’d throw on a robe if Tom chose to go somewhere in the Wizarding world, but somehow he doubted that’s what the man would decide. Harry didn’t blame him either – who would want to be treated like a slave on their birthday?

Going downstairs, he started preparing the pancake batter. Fortunately, it was the sort of thing he could prepare for later, so since he didn’t think Tom was awake yet, it would be able to wait for him – he’d actually cook the pancakes once the man arrived. Putting jam, sugar, butter and cheese on the table – since he’d noticed that last time, Tom had started with a few savoury pancakes before switching to sweet for the last one – Harry decided that breakfast was as ready as it could be. Next, he searched for a book he _knew_ was somewhere.

“Aha!” he crowed, finding it about twenty minutes later, after ransacking the sitting room, his bedroom, the library and two other rooms he’d used when Ron and Hermione had been staying here.

“Found what you’re looking for, master?” Tom’s smooth voice inquired, with a hint of amusement. Harry jumped, hitting his head on the wall and making an inarticulate noise of surprise and pain which was muffled by the sofa. Yes, he was currently stuck upside-down between the back of the sofa and the wall in one of the smaller sitting rooms. It wasn’t one that Harry used since he preferred the main room with its large desk in the corner and multiple arrangements of chairs near the fire, but he had used it with Ron and Hermione. He’d suddenly had a memory of flicking through the book while relaxing on this sofa and sure enough, it had clearly slipped down the back at some point. Unfortunately, summoning spells only worked if the caster either had a good idea of what the item looked like – and Harry had forgotten some of the important details of this item – or knew where it was.

Struggling to get out of his position, Harry ended up sitting on the couch, his hair in an absolute state, red in his cheeks. It didn’t help his embarrassment that Tom looked as well-put-together as always. Harry cleared his throat and looked away, the red in his cheeks intensifying as his traitorous mind started imagining…things. Things like what those lips might feel like, or how those eyes might look in…No. Bad thoughts! Bad imagination! Not appropriate – stop it!

Feeling like he might have got a hold on himself – thought he’d like to get a hold on…no! – Harry looked back at Tom and smiled, hoping it didn’t look too false.

“Are you ready to have your pancakes?” The man raised an eyebrow, his supercilious look still annoyingly attractive.

“Of course, master. At your convenience,” he replied. Harry rolled his eyes. When he wanted to, Tom had got _passive-aggressive_ down to a fine art. He almost reconsidered offering the man a free pass for the day but…well, he’d had to spend his _actual_ birthday evening playing the role of the perfect slave, something he’d chosen to do because it would benefit his master. Harry supposed that he could put up with arrogant Tom Riddle for a day in compensation.

Yes, he could make the argument that by the laws of the land and thanks to to Lady Magic Herself, Tom was his slave so if he wanted the man to behave like a perfect slave, he’d better do it or face the consequences, but…well, after seeing the previous night how so many people had used that thinking to justify outright abuse… Harry didn’t want to be one of those people. And that started here. That started with appreciating that Tom had willingly helped him, and showing his appreciation.

Sure, if Tom tried to push it past the day, Harry would come down on him. He was still very aware that, even if not Voldemort anymore, Tom Riddle had an extremely manipulative side. And Harry was still unwilling to become victim to that. So, until he saw proper evidence that he could relax the rules a bit without having to constantly worry that Tom would take advantage of his leniency, he’d keep them in place. But this was a special occasion.

“Since it’s your birthday,” started Harry, standing up and brushing his hair into a vague kind of order, “I figure you can have a pass for today, like on Christmas Day. You don’t have to call me master, and you don’t have to kneel.” He fixed Tom with a stern look. “But only for today, OK?”

“Thank you, Harry,” Tom said, the superciliousness gone from his voice. “And…may I use my magic?” Harry considered it.

“Not today,” he decided. He’d given Tom quite a bit of lenience with regards to magic recently, and he was nervous about it backfiring on him. The man carefully hid his disappointment, but Harry spotted its gleam in his eyes. He felt suddenly guilty for his decision. Too late now, he supposed. “Still, we’ll be going out, so you probably wouldn’t be able to use it much today, anyway.”

“I see,” Tom replied neutrally. “Where are we going mas-Harry?” Harry lifted the book in his hands and wiggled it in front of Tom.

“That’s what this is for. It’s your birthday celebration, so you get to choose where we go.” Tom frowned in confusion.

“A guidebook to British landmarks?” he read when Harry had held the book still for long enough.

“Yep. Hermione got hold of this for our Horcrux Hunt. She thought you might have left horcruxes at significant monuments. You didn’t of course, but we only realised that a while later – that’s why this book ended up being left here. I figured you could look through and see whether there’s anything that catches your interest.” Passing the book over, Harry continued walking to the door. “I’ll get started on the pancakes. Come whenever.”

So saying, he disappeared into the passageway, heading for the kitchen.

XXX

Tom was left staring after him, the book dangling from his fingers. Leave it to his master to throw him for a loop. Tom hadn’t woken up in a very good mood. Nightmares had disrupted his sleep; images of figures crying, writhing, reaching out. Sometimes it had even been him doing all that, reaching towards an unidentifiable figure who just laughed and pointed his own wand at him. Needless to say, he hadn’t slept well. It was all due to that ball. That, and Tom suspected the strange feeling he’d been experiencing recently of _guilt_ was also part of it.

So, when he’d seen his master, his first reaction had been to snipe. Then Harry had disarmed him by giving him a free pass for the day…Unfortunately, he had decided against giving Tom access to his wand, but Tom supposed he shouldn’t have got his hopes up. He had to remind himself that had the situations been reversed, he wouldn’t have treated Harry anywhere _near_ as well as Harry had been treating him. And if last night had been any indicator, even among slavery as it was in reality, he was a lot better off than most.

He supposed he shouldn’t have been so surprised to see so many other slaves there last night – it was, after all, only the crème de la crème of British Wizarding society who was invited to the Ministry New Year’s ball, that is to say, only people with the money who could sponsor the Ministry projects. The governing body of the Wizarding world provided many services for low or no charge, for example sponsoring St Mungo’s, running the Aurors and the Hitwizards, the Wizengamot and its other related judicial arms to name but a few. With taxes being at 20%, similar to their counterparts in the muggle world, but affecting a vastly smaller group of individuals, most of the Ministry’s revenue came from wealthy donors – that was how Lucius had gained so much influence.

And of course, such donors, being the ones who had both the money, and the desire to show off, would choose to buy the new hot commodity – slaves. And an event like that would be a chance to show off how well they had been subjugated, playing into the very anti-Death Eater atmosphere Tom had felt pervaded the conversations of the night. Essentially, the image he and Harry had been trying to create; but Tom had a feeling that while his and Harry’s interactions had been at least partially staged, the other ones…hadn’t.

But the feeling that he should be _grateful_ to Harry for not abusing him…well, he was in two minds about it. There was the old part of him that bridled and sneered at the very implication that he should be _grateful_ to anyone – what did anyone ever do for _him_ that wasn’t his right to receive anyway? But there was the much newer part of him that was slowly coming to realise that…that he’d been wrong. He’d been wrong in making horcruxes, and he’d been wrong in trying to bend the Wizarding world to his desires.

In his never-ending desire to take and control, he’d led witches and wizards to ruin. He’d led _himself_ to ruin. He’d put himself in this position. And the only thing between him and those slaves he’d seen last night? Harry. Someone else he had hurt, and hurt deeply, with his actions. His master was the only thing that stopped him from being one of the barely-human creatures which had flinched at their masters touches and whispered desperate thanks for not hurting them further. So yes, there was a part of him that felt grateful.

But the conflict in his own mind was difficult to manage and the constant back and forth irritated him at the best of times.

Sighing, he looked at the book dangling from his hand. He supposed he’d better choose a place to visit. Clearly, Harry wanted him to enjoy his birthday, and even if Tom would really rather spend the day at home, working on his research and relaxing, he supposed putting on a front to show his master that he appreciated Harry’s efforts to make his (belated) birthday enjoyable was really the least he could do.

XXX

Harry flipped the final pancake onto the plate, two neat stacks sitting under warming charms. He frowned at the empty place at the table – Tom still hadn’t come. Flicking his wand at the pan and other dishes in the sink, Harry slid into his chair, pulling one of the stacks over to him.

“Tom,” he shouted. “Pancakes are done!”

“Coming, master,” was the reply, muffled by the corners around which it had to travel. Harry shook his head, a faint smile at the corners of his lips. He wondered if Tom even realised he was so used to calling Harry ‘master’ that he did so even when he had permission not to? Something in Harry purred at the thought. He realised that the idea of Tom calling him ‘master’ without it being enforced by the collar was…appealing. If Tom called him ‘master’, because he trusted Harry to guide him, to lead him…ah, but there was no point thinking of such things. The only reason Tom hadn’t killed him yet was because of that collar around his neck, Harry knew that. Any other hopes were just pointless daydreams.

Harry waited for Tom to arrive before he started tucking in. As the man entered, he slid the book back over to Harry. It was open to a page on the British History Museum.

“Is that where you want to go?” asked Harry, munching on a pancake liberally sprinkled with sugar. Tom nodded.

“I know there’s a section which is only accessible by wizards. I’ve heard it’s very good.” Harry shrugged.

“Alright, your day, your choice. I suppose if you have a scarf on, there’s no reason you have to act like a slave even if we meet magicals there.” Tom smiled at him, though Harry could tell that it was pained for some reason.

“It’s OK, master. I appreciate you trying to make this day as pleasant for me as possible, but I know I’m a slave. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with the Ministry if someone recognised us and made a report about it.” Harry stared at him. Was this actually Tom Riddle? The same Tom Riddle who’d once been Voldemort? The same Tom Riddle who had, not four months ago, spat the title ‘master’ only because the collar forced him? _Now_ with the offer of pretending not to be a slave for a day, in as much as Harry could make it possible, he chose not to take it? In the end, he just had to shake his head in amazement, and not a little concern.

“It’s up to you,” he said finally. “After what I did for the Ministry last night, assuming Kingsley wins the election on Tuesday, I doubt they’ll be too strict with us. Besides, we do have that report from their last visit – the Ministry representatives said that it would be valid for six months as a guarantee.” Tom bowed his head for a moment.

“Thank you, then,” he said, meeting eyes with Harry. The depth of emotion in them was…unsettling. Or at least, it was unsettling seeing it in Tom who was usually so carefully blank. Harry just shrugged again.

“How are the pancakes?” The corner of Tom’s lips quirked slightly.

“Good, master. Harry,” he corrected himself, looking dismayed. So he hadn’t realised he’d been doing it.

“I see you prefer the savoury pancakes to start,” Harry remarked. “Any reason why?” Tom shrugged elegantly.

“I’ve never had much of a sweet tooth,” he admitted. “I always preferred the savoury options for breakfast at Hogwarts,” he revealed. Harry raised his eyebrows. Would the wonders never end? Tom revealing information about himself without being prompted? Such things required a reward – quid pro quo.

“Me too,” Harry replied. “The Dursleys always used to give me horribly sweet cereals for breakfast, because they were cheap, which did little to fill or sustain me through the day. When they let me have breakfast, that was,” he added grimly. “At the same time, they would order me to cook them piles of eggs and bacon which they would rarely let me taste.” OK, that was a bit more depressing than he had intended. “So, when I got to Hogwarts, I used to enjoy all the things I’d rarely ever been allowed,” he added, forcing a more jovial note in his voice. It didn’t seem to help. Tom was looking at him seriously. Harry hesitated to meet his gaze – if he saw the same pity or awkwardness that he usually saw…

He didn’t. No, what he saw in Tom’s eyes was anger…and understanding. And guilt. As strange as it was to see guilt in those red eyes, it was unmistakable.

“At the orphanage, we only ever had porridge for breakfast. Oats were cheap, and so was sugar, so we all added it to make the bland porridge more palatable. When I got to Hogwarts, I was shocked at the sheer range of food available. I think I made myself sick more than once that first week by eating too much. None of my housemates could understand why I tucked sausages into my napkin and carried them with me for a while.” There was a bitter tone to his voice, a bitterness and an anger that were obviously well-worn.

And the shared story lifted a weight off Harry’s shoulders. It was only when it was gone that Harry realised what the weight had been – shame. He had always been ashamed of talking about how the Dursleys had treated him. He knew with his head that he hadn’t deserved what they’d done. He knew that it hadn’t really even been about _him_ specifically – if he’d been a normal, that is, non-magical boy, he would have probably still been treated as second-class compared to Dudley, but he likely wouldn’t have been the dirt on the bottom of their shoes slash live-in servant.

But in his heart? In his heart, he was still that little boy who had seen that the way his family treated him was different to the way they treated Dudley, and he had been told that the reason for it was because there was something wrong with him. And he’d been ashamed of the treatment, because it just announced his freakishness to the world. No one understood that. But Tom did. Tom had clearly known the kind of hunger that made you think, the next time you got food, that maybe you should save a bit of it for later, because you never knew when you would get food again. He had learnt, as Harry had, that eating lots of food when you weren’t used to it would soon see you in the bathroom, chucking your guts up.

So Harry just smiled at Tom and said a quiet ‘thanks’, an acknowledgement of their shared pain, their shared understanding, and their shared experience of how no one _else_ understood. And Tom just nodded back and him and they went back to their pancakes without another word.

XXX

The British History Museum was actually really interesting, Harry realised. He’d never visited it before, of course. Little Whinging had been a bit too far from London for them to go as a school trip, and the Dursleys would never have _dreamed_ of taking him there.

Tom had his scarf on again as they wandered through the exhibits. Harry had been particularly fascinated by the Egyptian one. Even better, Tom had kept up a running commentary – whenever they were far enough from the other people to not risk being over-heard – about how the magical world had intersected with the muggle.

“How do you know all this?” he asked at one point. Tom just raised an eyebrow, an amused tilt to his mouth.

“I read,” was his only response. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I know _that_. Given that whenever you have free time, I’m almost guaranteed to find you with a book in your hands, that’s been rather evident,” he said dryly. “I meant what area of interest led you to find out so much about Egyptian wizards?” Tom shrugged.

“The Egyptians made huge breakthroughs in rituals – in fact, they pioneered the first staff-cast spells which took less than five minutes to cast.”

“Five _minutes_?” Harry spluttered. Most spells took _seconds_ now. Tom shrugged again, the movement so elegant on him.

“If anyone ever tells you that old and obsolete magic is better or more powerful, just remember this: it became obsolete for a reason, and usually that reason is because someone found out how to surpass it. The first ever recorded spell involved a half an hour chant, along with interpretive dance, and required beseeching a number of gods and eating some rather questionable berries. What did it do? It lit a fire.”

“All that for a _fire_?”

“Yes. Suffice it to say that such spells didn’t become popular until they’d been _significantly_ more refined.”

“I imagine not,” agreed Harry. With all that kerfuffle, muggle methods would probably have been far quicker.

When they got to the wizard-only section, – which required touching the glass of an exhibit on Ancient Mesopotamian pottery with the tip of his wand and then being in contact with Tom while they walked through – Tom kept his scarf on but became rather…twitchy. Whenever someone was in sight, he seemed to have to fight against himself to not retreat behind Harry’s shoulder, but to remain by the exhibit. He also developed a habit of fidgeting with his scarf, checking that it was completely covering the collar with almost obsessive attention. Harry watched in increasing concern as his face became lined with what looked like irritation but could also be upset. He tried to distract Tom with questions about what they were looking at, but generally he genuinely wanted to know the answers. It seemed to work, partially at least.

XXX

They left the museum in the evening, though they hadn’t managed to see it all – the place was far too large to see in a single day. They’d had a quick lunch at the café, but both were rather peckish by the time they left.

“So, what do you feel like?” Harry asked, looking up and down the street. “There’s a place down there – a pub, I think. Or we could wander around for a while and look for something else?” Tom thought about it for a while. A pub was not particularly appealing, but neither was wandering up and down London’s streets in search of something else…

“Can we take a walk down the street for a while? If we don’t see anything else within ten minutes or so, we could go to the pub.”

“Sure,” Harry replied happily. They set off, Tom having to fight his instinct to allow Harry to go first. They hadn’t been out together much, but the times they had had been quite…impactful. If nothing else, today where his general restrictions on behaviour had been lifted, Tom had realised how much he had been conditioned by the collar already, without even knowing it. He had spent the day catching himself calling Harry ‘master’, despite not being obliged to do so. It just felt…natural by this point. And that scared him. Because he hadn’t actually realised it had happened, and if he hadn’t realised about that habit being conditioned into him, which other ones had he missed?

He suspected that kneeling was another one. Fortunately, he’d always had permission to eat at the table with his master, so lunch hadn’t presented any problems. When Harry had occasionally taken a seat at a bench to give his feet a rest, however…. Tom’s first instinct had been to kneel, and it had been quite difficult to force himself not to do so and to sit on the bench next to Harry. Throughout the time he’d spent on the bench, he’d felt edgy, like he was doing something wrong. There was a part of him that seemed to be anticipating a punishment, as he had experienced so many times before. Of course, it hadn’t come – that his master condoned the situation was enough for the collar to be quiescent. But somehow, the lack of correction was not reassuring – it just left Tom feeling even more off-balance.

And even worse…there was a part of him that wished he could just go back to normal, to not having to check his impulse to call Harry ‘master’ out of pride, to be able to kneel when his instincts told him to do so, to not need to wonder who was around him or worry that they might see his collar beneath the scarf because he knew he was already behaving correctly. It was a part of him that he hadn’t realised existed before today, and one that he was desperately trying to supress.

Because honestly? What use would finding his freedom be if he could not appreciate it? What good was it him spending time to find a key when by the time he had found it, he would choose to willingly throw it away, his mind seduced into feeling like his slavery was only natural for him? Because yes, he was afraid of that. He had spent enough time being introspective recently to know that within the growing sense of guilt he felt, there was a very small hint of relief; relief that he no longer had to make the decisions which he’d messed up so badly before. He just had to obey his master, and that was it. And he had no need to feel guilt if he obeyed his master, because his master was making the decisions and owned the consequences of his actions. And the seduction of that thought was…terrifying.

He had to get free; he had to, before he was lost completely and utterly to the slavery.

XXX

In the end, they went back to the pub – they’d seen a few cafés which were still open, but they were going to close soon, and Tom hadn’t liked the look of the couple of take-away places. Harry was slightly concerned about his companion – the man had been pretty quiet for the last couple of hours. Even Harry buying him a book he was interested in from the museum gift store as a birthday present hadn’t done more than gain a quiet thank you and brief expression of pleasure. Once they were sitting down in the pub, having ordered their food, Harry decided to break the silence.

“Tom? Are you OK?” he asked tentatively. The man could be touchy, after all, and Harry didn’t want to prod too much.

“I’m fine thank you, mas-“ Harry’s slave cut himself off, screwing his eyes tightly closed for a brief moment, before continuing. “I’m fine, thank you, Harry,” he repeated, quieter and looking away. His finger-tips brushed the table-top in a seemingly random pattern.

“Ah,” said Harry. He had an idea of the problem. He’d noticed how often Tom slipped and called him ‘master’. He’d noticed how Tom had hovered next to him when he had sat down on a bench for a rest. He’d noticed how twitchy Tom had been when they were in the magical-only exhibit area and someone had been in sight. What he didn’t know was whether he should broach it or not. But, once again, he’d chosen to be a Gryffindor instead of a Slytherin. “Is this about you calling me ‘master’ despite not having to?” he asked quietly. The way Tom’s eyes flicked to him and then away again was a telling sign. Harry nodded. “Look, don’t worry about it. It’s just a habit, right?” Tom’s lips pressed together into a thin line. For a long while, Harry thought he wasn’t going to say anything, but then he spoke.

“Have you ever been worried about losing your mind? About losing who you are?” he asked finally, his voice tired and…defeated. Harry thought about it.

“Not as such,” he said slowly, “but in my Fifth and Sixth year, there _were_ times I thought I was losing my mind. That was mostly just being your horcrux, though, and feeling your emotions at the worst of times. Not to mention the visions.” He shuddered in memory. “Seeing through Nagini’s eyes when she bit Arthur Weasley was…” he shook himself, returning to the present. “Is that what you’re feeling now?” Tom was silent for another long moment, before finally nodding.

“This collar…it’s so insidious. I didn’t realise how used I had become to calling you master, to kneeling in your presence until I had to stop myself from doing it.” The food arrived – a steak and chips for Harry, a steak and kidney pie for Tom. Neither of them paid much attention to it except for Harry giving the waitress a quick smile in thanks.

“But that’s just habit, right? It’s not an indication that you’re going insane.” Harry had to take a moment just to marvel at the situation: who had ever thought this would be his life – counselling a former dark lord? Tom shrugged, the expression not the usual elegant lifting of shoulders. This one was limp, dejected. A curl of guilt squirmed in Harry’s stomach – he’d intended this to be a nice day for Tom, a relief from normal. It sounded like he’d just made it more complicated.

“But when a part of me just wants to go back to _normal_? How can that be anything but me losing what makes me, me?” The words were barely more than a whisper. “When a part of me just wants to kneel next to you, damn the fact that we’re in public? When the rest of me is screaming out in protest at the idea, but a small voice inside is remembering back to kneeling next to you after you’d punished me and how damn _safe_ I felt there with your hands running through my hair. How it felt a few days ago when I took the same position again. How am I _not_ losing my mind?!” His hands came up to grip at his hair, tugging harshly. Harry made an executive decision as he realised Tom was on the brink of a breakdown.

“Right,” he said, calmly but firmly. “We’re going home.” So saying, he quickly flicked his wand in a privacy charm. They were in a cubby-hole booth, so the other pub denizens – not that there were many considering it was still fairly earl in the evening – would probably not notice much anyway. No, he might have to confound the waitress – make her think more time had passed. Or maybe not – she didn’t look particularly attentive.

Hating the idea of wasting food, Harry conjured a couple of boxes, levitated their food into them and then put a stasis charm on the boxes, finally shrinking them and popping them in his pocket. Looking around, he nodded in satisfaction. He modified the privacy charm to end in ten minutes, and then standing, he pulled Tom gently out of the booth and apparated them home, relying on the charm to mask the noise.

As soon as they were home, he walked straight to the sitting room, going to one of the armchairs by the fire. Pulling a cushion off it, he popped it on the floor by the chair. Reaching up, he gripped Tom gently around the back of his neck, guiding him down to kneel on the cushion. Then, relaxing into the armchair, he smoothed his hands through Tom’s hair. The man shook briefly, as if holding back some strong emotion, his hands lifting once more to grip at his hair.

“None of that,” Harry told him firmly, brushing his hands away. “Grip your knees if you must.” He saw Tom take his advice, gripping onto his knees with a white-knuckled grip. Harry stroked through Tom’s hair a few more times before he let his hand slip lower onto the back of Tom’s neck where he left it, a warm, heavy weight. “Now, what’s going through your head? Why is this hitting you all of a sudden?”

Because honestly, Harry had thought he was doing fine. He’d seemed to be slowly settling into his new life well enough. Yes, they’d been some difficult patches, and he certainly hadn’t taken it all in good grace, but frankly, Harry would have considered it concerning if he had. In fact, when Tom had been so…accepting that morning about being a slave, Harry _had_ been concerned. Was this something to do with the Ministry ball? Had someone said something to Tom? He’d seemed to be fine before that, so surely that had to be the source? Or was it just that he was a very good actor and this was the breaking point? Harry didn’t know the answer, but he would be patient until Tom gave it to him.

Tom jerked, almost violently, and gasped a short breath. His outbreath sounded like a sob, and when Harry leant over so he could see Tom’s face, he realised that there was a glistening tear running down his porcelain cheek. Figuring that Tom would hate to have sweet nothings cooed at him, Harry chose to stay silent instead, stroking his hair once more, gentle strokes which ran through his silky locks, scratched at his scalp, and continued down his neck to his shoulder blades.

XXX

Tom felt like he was falling apart. He felt like something inside him had shattered and the only thing holding him together was the warm hand running through his hair, gripping the nape of his neck, and then smoothing over his shoulders.

It had just…it had just suddenly become all too much. He had been keeping himself going with the promise of freedom, with his assertions to himself that all the submission he gave his master was to the greater end of earning his trust so he could find a solution to his slavery. So to find out that while he had thought he was but donning the _mask_ of slavery for his own ends, in reality he himself was being changed…it was a shock to him. It hadn’t been like this on Christmas Day, but then he’d barely seen his master all day, so life was not much different from normal. He hadn’t realised… The promise of freedom was still there, but he knew he was still at least four months away from being able to produce a potential counter-enchantment, maybe more. And if _this_ was evidence of how much he had degenerated in just four months of real slavery? He had a real fear that by the time he actually found a solution, he would have lost the part of himself that wanted to be free.

The emotional shocks had just kept coming recently, and Tom was feeling emotionally bruised. He almost longed for the time when the only emotions he had felt were rage, hate, and greed. He’d been assailed by gratitude towards and from his master, by anger on behalf of his master, by empathy for his master and other slaves, and guilt. Oh, how he had been feeling guilt recently. Guilt about his actions from creating horcruxes in the first place to killing Harry’s parents. From snaring witches and wizards in a web of words that painted a picture he’d never intended to come about, to killing so many for what seemed such petty aims to him now. He’d…he’d been coming to realise just how screwed up he had made things, and seeing the state of so many of the people who had followed him last night had been the final nail in the coffin of his ability to justify his actions to himself.

And a new aspect of guilt had made itself known – why should he be with a kind master when they were not? Sure, perhaps some of them were utterly horrible people; many of the Death Eaters may easily have ended up criminals regardless of what Tom had chosen to do. But what about Nott’s son – a young man barely out of Hogwarts? What had he done to deserve being abused when Tom himself was having a practically cushy experience in comparison? Tom doubted he’d even killed anyone. Not like Tom, who had killed someone at _sixteen_ , all to ensure his own immortality.

Throughout Tom’s life he’d hurt others. Some of it was justifiable, maybe: they’d hurt him first. But much of it was not. The Cruciatus had been his favourite curse for a reason – watching the proud pure-blooded witches and wizards who believed they were so much better than a lowly half-blood writhing under his power was…addicting. He’d carried around so much pain and rage for so long now, even before he’d ever heard of Hogwarts. It was hard to admit that maybe he was wrong for using that as an excuse to hurt others, to hurt people who had never hurt him. That maybe, instead of the limit-surpassing genius he had always thought of himself, maybe he was just a coward, as much as any wizard who had hid in his own home while Lord Voldemort took over.

It had taken Harry, who really should have been feeling as much pain and rage towards him from what Voldemort had done to him, choosing _not_ to take his revenge for Tom to see things in a different way. It had taken Harry giving him his magic as a Christmas present; doing his best to celebrate his birthday with him; defending him against people who sought to take advantage of his status; caring about his state of mind; and now, doing his best to help Tom find a way through this emotional morass. It had taken Harry showing him that there was another way to react to injury, rather than the revenge and retribution he had grown up learning was the _only_ way to respond without showing weakness.

Harry could have locked him in the basement, chained him to the wall not just as a punishment for a recent misdemeanour of Tom’s, but simply because of what Voldemort had done to him. He could have punished Tom every day for his actions. He didn’t. He didn’t even do what the masters Tom had seen at the ball had done – subjugated their slaves simply because they could. Tom thought back to Travers and shivered – that could have been him…that _should_ have been him. But it wasn’t, and that was thanks to Harry.

But the very fact that Tom was feeling all these things made a part of him gibber in terror. Because these were the thoughts of a slave, surely. These were not the way a free man thought, were they? And he was sure he wanted to be free, wasn’t he? He was grateful to his master for not using his power, but in being grateful, surely that acknowledged that Harry had power over him in the first place? And to be thankful for Harry not treating how he deserved to be treated…that was acknowledging that someone else had moral _authority_ to determine it. And that…that was a thought which was too new, too painful for Tom to properly grasp. He had never accepted that anyone had moral authority over him – orphanage workers, teachers, Ministry workers, employers…they had only had authority over him for a brief moment; and that only in a physical sense, and because Tom had allowed it, because he needed what they offered him at that time. As soon as their use was ended, so was any authority they had.

But Harry…Harry had the power to force him to do things, yes, but that wasn’t the main reason for his authority. No, while it might have started out like that, Tom now realised that he actually valued Harry’s words, valued the insight he gave and the scraps of information he let slip. Harry…understood him, in many ways. Not completely, but a lot better than most people did. Dumbledore had seen through his mask, but had never seen the boy deep inside. Thanks to his similar childhood experiences, something else Tom felt a wrenching sense of guilt about, Harry _did_. Harry saw his manipulative tendencies and accepted them, as much as he refused to let them take hold of him. He saw Tom as a _person_ , something many people hadn’t. So yes, Tom was slowly realising that he had _given_ Harry authority over him for more than just Tom’s immediate benefit. And that realisation was one of the most terrifying of all.

And so the conflict within him, the two opposing thought processes running through his mind tore him apart. He sobbed, once. Twice. The sounds escaped him without his permission, as did the single tear tracing its way from the corner of his eye down his cheek. The warm hand on the back of his head, on his neck, between his shoulders…it grounded him. But he couldn’t relax into it, not the way a part of him wanted. He wouldn’t, submit to that part of him, the part that longed to just lean against his master’s legs like he had once before, let his master take the weight of his pain, the weight of his sins and do with them what he willed. He couldn’t. And there was another part of him, an even newer part that said…he didn’t deserve it.

XXX

Harry didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Tom’s neck and shoulder-blades were rigid and tense below his fingers, and no matter how long he spent trying to soothe the man, it wasn’t improving. At least Tom’s breathing had calmed down from its ragged gasps and occasional sobs. The man hadn’t said a word, and somehow Harry knew he shouldn’t push. Whatever was going through Tom’s mind was evidently big. Harry even would venture to say that it scared the hell out of the man from what he had seen.

Sighing slightly after they’d been sitting for a while with no change, Harry took his hand away and got up. He looked down at his slave, who was still looking more dejected than he’d ever seen the man, and decided that maybe the best thing was to give him a bit of space.

“I’m going to eat dinner in the kitchen. If you want to have your dinner, come to the kitchen. I’ll leave it under a stasis charm, so come whenever.” There was no response except the barest inclination of his head. Sighing again, Harry left the room. As promised, he plated the food he’d taken away with him and then recast the stasis charm on Tom’s plate. His own food was still as hot as when it had first arrived – the stasis charm did exactly that; held things in a particular state, so his chips were still crunchy, and his steak was still warm and juicy.

Harry ate in silence – Tom didn’t come. His mind turned over the events of the day, trying to work out exactly why Tom had said he was ‘losing’ himself. So he was automatically calling Harry ‘master’ even when he didn’t have to? Harry had continued calling Remus ‘Professor Lupin’ for _years_ after the man had stopped being his teacher, despite the werewolf telling him to call him Remus. Habits were habits. They didn’t necessarily mean anything, did they? Unless it was about the implication – perhaps Tom was worried that because he was calling Harry ‘master’ it meant he was actually coming to accept his position as a slave?

Well, that wasn’t such a bad thing, was it? It would certainly make both their lives a lot easier if Tom wasn’t fighting Harry all the way. Frankly, Harry had enjoyed the last few weeks where Tom hadn’t been so irritating: it had certainly been more pleasant to come home to dinner on the table and a peaceful meal than other times in the past when the atmosphere around the table had been so full of resentment that he’d almost wanted to take his meal to another room.

Perhaps the man was worried that by losing that resentment, that anger, he would lose himself? Merlin knows Voldemort had been nothing more than a bundle of rage and violence. But Tom was more than that, and Harry hoped he’d realise it. Harry didn’t want a broken slave as much as Tom didn’t want to be one – Harry enjoyed their duels, their conversations, discovering more about each other, being able to reveal parts of himself that he usually kept hidden because he knew the man would understand… There was no reason Tom had to lose those parts of himself to the slavery. And frankly, if Tom _did_ lose the arrogance and false self-confidence which had characterised those first few weeks together…well, Harry wouldn’t mourn it.

XXX

“Potter,” Harry’s trainer called after him at the end of a session. “Memo for you.” Harry went to the front to take the piece of parchment from him. Huh. Kingsley wanted to see him in his office.

“Thanks,” he muttered to the hard-faced woman who was his battle-tactics trainer. The Auror nodded at him, her face as stern as always. Hurrying out, he took the elevator up to the Minister’s floor. There, he had to wait for about ten minutes in the reception area, before the Minister’s door opened, two people exiting after shaking hands with the Minister. Kingsley looked around and spotted Harry.

“Ah, Harry. Good. Come on in,” he said with a note of warmth in his voice, beckoning Harry in. After sitting down at the desk, Harry looked at him warily.

“I suppose I should first say congratulations, Minister,” Harry told him with a grin. The papers a week ago had confirmed that Kingsley had won the elections by a landslide. Voting in them had been interesting for Harry, since it was the first time he’d ever done it. He’d had to go along to a specific area in the Ministry where he’d been given a special piece of parchment and quill. He’d had to sign his name first, wait for it to flash green in confirmation that he was who he said he was, and that he was eligible to vote, then tick his choice for Minister for Magic. A moment later, the parchment had folded itself up and zipped into a box to one side of the room and that was it.

“Thanks,” Kingsley replied, a satisfied smile on his face as he leant back in his chair. “Thanks for your help: I’m sure your clear support was very important.” Harry shrugged.

“I’m not so sure about that – a war hero who’s also a provably competent Minister? Who _wouldn’t_ vote for that?”

“The people who don’t agree with the direction I’m taking in the Ministry, perhaps?” Kingsley asked rhetorically with a raised eyebrow. Harry shrugged again.

“I suppose, but I’m not sure how people can disagree with beefing up security, rebuilding what was damaged by the war, and reforming the out-dated practices which only benefit a minority.” Then Harry realised what he had said and held up a hand, halting Kingsley’s response. “Scratch that – yes, OK, I get it. Some people see their power disappearing and would prefer someone else in charge, someone who won’t take it away from them.” Kingsley nodded slowly.

“Well spotted, Harry. We’ll make a politician of you yet.” Harry shuddered at the thought.

“No thanks. I’m happy trying to become an Auror.” Then, a thought occurred to him. “Though, I _was_ speaking to Hermione at the ball.”

“Oh yes?” Kingsley acknowledged, his tone casual but his eyes suddenly sharp.

“Yeah. She was talking about what she’s trying to accomplish in bringing oversight of the slaves under her department.” Kingsley made a note of acknowledgement, but didn’t say anything further. Harry continued, his eyes on the man, watching his reactions carefully. “She said that she’s having problems convincing her counterpart in the Ministry Department of Corrections to release control, and suspects it’s due to a conflict of interest on the Head’s part. Having met the illustrious Mr Dogbane, I would have to agree with her.”

“What are you trying to say, Harry?” Harry narrowed his eyes at the man.

“I’m saying that it doesn’t really sound like you to condone abuse, even if it’s by inaction. And don’t try to deny that we’re talking about abuse. I’m sure you saw as well as I did what state most of those slaves are in. Yes, perhaps we could argue that Death Eaters like the Lestranges or the Carrows deserve anything they get after what they did to so many people, but I saw plenty of people there who I either recognised as being non-combatant supporters or people like Theodore Nott, a classmate of mine who can’t have become a sadistic murderer and torturer in just a few months, surely. I can’t see how they could have done anything to deserve what they’re going through. So I really can’t see why you’re not giving Hermione more support in bringing them under her jurisdiction. You _know_ she’ll put the effort into improving their situations without needing much help from you.” There was a long pause as Kingsley looked at him searchingly, seriously. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand across his face.

“It’s not that simple,” he admitted. “Being Minister…it’s different from being a simple Auror, very different. As an Auror, it was my _job_ to stand up for justice, and to disagree with the establishment if I saw justice being perverted. As Minister…I have to do my best to hold together the disparate elements of our society, if I don’t want another dark lord to rise in the next generation. Our society is able to undergo a big change because of the events of the war, but not everyone is on-board with that. As we said earlier, there is a part of society that was very happy under the rules of the old Ministry, and are not keen to see it changed. Dogbane is not Head of Department because he’s particularly exceptional in any sort of way; he’s Head because of his influence. He got the position because he has a group of powerful friends and by putting him in a position of relative power, it curbs that group’s desire to buck the trend.”

“They’re sacrificial pawns,” Harry said, dawning horror in his voice as he realised. Kingsley looked at him and raised his eyebrows. Harry swallowed and then explained his thoughts. “You’re using the slaves as sacrifices to their desire to dominate, to control. While they have the slaves at home to take their anger and their frustration at the way the system is changing, you don’t have to worry about them banding together to create a more organised opposition.” He looked at Kingsley in a new light – nothing he had seen of the man through all the time they’d worked together during the war had indicated him capable of this kind of ruthlessness. Suddenly, he wondered whether he’d backed the right horse in this race. Kingsley sighed again, his face suddenly looking very tired.

“Not a bad summation,” he admitted, “but incomplete.” Harry made a go-on gesture, crossing his arms as he frowned at the man. He’d earned the right to explain himself, if nothing else. “You’re right about me using the slaves as a distraction to keep those elements from making too much trouble, but you’re wrong if you think I ever intended this situation to go on for too long.” He paused and eyed Harry. “Actually, that brings me on to what I wanted to talk to you about. I said I’d tell you the next time I wanted you to use your image for political aims, so…”

“Alright,” Harry said, intrigued despite himself. He had to say he was relieved to know that Kingsley had had a plan to prevent the abuse from continuing, though was still a bit disturbed that it had been part of the Minister’s intentions in the first place. “What’s your plan?” Kingsley paused for a moment, then started speaking, his voice deep and slow.

“We’ve recently arrested a man on serious charges of illegal potions trafficking. He had been on the Auror’s watch list before the war really started again, but it was only during the last year that he got sloppy enough to leave sufficient evidence to be brought against him. But now he’s in the cells, awaiting trial. It’s pretty likely he’ll be convicted and sentenced to a good couple of decades in Azkaban, but even if not, he’ll be in the cells for some time while the case is constructed – his charges and flight risk are serious enough to reject his request for bail. What that means is that the Ministry has had to confiscate his slave. Now, his slave is in a very bad condition and only has three months left of his sentence.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Harry said, a note of apprehension in his voice. Kingsley just ignored him.

“So, what I was thinking was that it would be a good idea for the Man-who-Conquered, who already has a slave who is noticeably obedient without being abused, to take this slave on for the final months of his sentence. Then, suitably shocked by the condition in which you find the slave in, you will do an interview with a sympathetic reporter. Done well, prepared sufficiently, maybe even with the slave in question featuring – before and after photos, perhaps – it could stoke a wave of anti-slavery sentiment which would then give me the freedom to pass the oversight of the current slaves over to someone who has a history of defending the vulnerable.” Kingsley gave Harry a significant look. Harry took all that in. It sounded rather complex…

“…How long have you been planning this?” Kingsley shrugged.

“When I became aware of the extent to which the slaves were being abused, and then Hermione approached me, I started thinking of ways to help the situation. This event just seemed like a good opportunity to do something about it. So, will you do it?” Harry thought carefully about the situation. Part of him wanted to do it. He’d definitely been disturbed at the plight of so many of the slaves – if he could do something to help them…

But there was also Tom to think about. Grimmauld Place was Tom’s home, and bringing in someone else could be problematic. Especially since the man wasn’t doing very well at the moment. Since his breakdown on New Year’s Day, he’d been snappish and angry, his tone and actions almost going back to what he’d been like when he had first arrived. Harry had tried to be understanding, but that didn’t seem to be helping things and his patience was wearing thin – Grimmauld Place was also _Harry’s_ home.

In the end, though, what could he do? He understood where Kingsley was coming from, and admitted that the message coming from him would have a lot more impact than coming from someone else – both because he was the Man-who-Conquered, and because he had a slave himself. What other slave-owners would dismiss being said by someone without one, perhaps deciding they were ignorant or jealous, they couldn’t dismiss from someone with one. That the slaves had to finish their sentences was not in question; that they might be able to do so without permanent mental scarring was.

“Fine.” Harry agreed finally. “But if this starts causing problems with Tom, I’m going to have to hand him back,” he warned. Kingsley shrugged.

“That’s fair. I’ll have him brought up now.”

“Wait, now?!” Harry asked, alarmed. “I haven’t prepared anything! I haven’t warned Tom about it!” Kingsley paused in reaching for a piece of parchment.

“Harry, this slave has been in terrible conditions for months. If you want to leave him in the cells downstairs for a bit longer, fine, but I really think he should go home with you as soon as possible. Seriously.” Harry stared at him a moment longer, then groaned.

“Fine. Bring him up. Who is it, anyway?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

“Malfoy!” Harry jumped to his feet. “You’re not serious! He and I will probably kill each other before the end of the term! We almost did at school, for Merlin’s sake!” Kingsley just looked at him, not a hint of humour on his face.

“I highly doubt that, Harry. You’ll see why when he arrives.” Groaning once more, Harry fell back heavily into his chair. He watched Kingsley through hooded eyes as the man sent off a memo and then prepared another document that Harry recognised as a certificate of ownership.

“How can you even do this, anyway?” Harry asked after a few minutes of silence. “Just take the slave away.”

“Technically, slaves aren’t sold – they’re leased,” Kingsley answered without looking up from the document he was filling in. “It’s almost like their punishment is being contracted out. The masters are expected to aim for both punishment and reformation in their methods – the problem at the moment being too much punishment and not enough reformation since there are rules about minimum punishment, but not about minimum reformative actions. If the Ministry is alerted that the master is not treating the slave in an appropriate manner, for example after a report that the slave has been behaving badly in public without chastisement, appropriate people are sent to investigate. Should it be discovered that the slave is not being treated in accordance with the Ministry guidance, the Ministry can terminate the lease contract and confiscate the slave for resale, or rather, re-leasing. Similarly, in this situation, the master is not able to provide appropriate care to the slave because he is detained within our holding cells. Should his detainment be proven unnecessary, which is unlikely, the Ministry would refund him the months of lease he paid for but was unable to take advantage of.” Kingsley finished writing on the certificate of ownership and passed it over to Harry who quickly scanned through it.

It was basically the same as the certificate he’d received for Tom. The difference was that instead of ‘in perpetuity’, the end date was the 27th of April, 2000 and there was a requirement that he release the slave in acceptable physical condition. He signed at the bottom with a sigh. Another stray.

“What about with Tom,” Harry asked curiously. “Since his collar won’t respond to anyone else…” Kingsley tilted his head from side to side.

“That’s a bit more complicated,” he admitted. “ _Technically_ you’re under the same rules as anyone else, and should you not treat your slave appropriately, he could be taken away. But…well, given that his collar won’t respond to anyone else without your prior orders, we’d then be forced to take care of him ourselves using less effective methods. So, I’d say that as long as he’s not obviously out of control, you should be fine.” Harry nodded. He’d been having similar thoughts, but it was good to have them confirmed.

“So Malfoy, will he be with me for the rest of his sentence or do I need to bring him back by a certain day?” Kingsley shook his head.

“No, he’s with you for the rest of his sentence, if you’re OK with that. You need to bring him back on the last day of his sentence so he can be set free properly, but other than that…” he trailed off as a knock fell on the door. “Come in,” he instructed, his voice brisk. The door opened and an Auror entered, a figure trailing behind him.

Unlike the last time a situation like this had occurred – meeting Tom for the first time – Malfoy was not restrained in any way. Clearly, he didn’t need to be. Harry couldn’t help from gasping at the first sight of his once-rival. He looked…bad. Seriously bad. While walking, his head was hunched down into his shoulders, his hair – longer than Harry had ever seen it – hiding his face completely. His movements were light, skittish, and he flinched as soon as the Auror stopped, almost backpedalling in his panic. Immediately, as if his strings were cut, he collapsed to his knees, lowering his head almost to the floor.

He was dressed in rags worse than the ragged tunic Tom had arrived with – perhaps this had once been the same garment, but it was so ripped and damaged that it was barely decent anymore. The skin was tight on his bones, once muscled arms and legs now little more than sticks. His once-pale skin was mottled with bruises and cuts. And was that a lash mark curling under his tunic? Harry looked up at Kingsley, and was sure his mouth was open in disbelief.

“I warned you it was bad,” the man said grimly. “Thank you Auror Jones,” he said to the accompanying Auror who nodded in deference and then disappeared out of the office, closing the door. “Believe it or not, we’ve actually healed the worst wounds. Had we not done anything, he would have been at risk of a pulmonary infection from being half-drowned, and a couple of the deeper cuts were in the first stages of septicaemia. Not to mention his internal damage from being beaten, among other things.” Harry swallowed, his decision to take Malfoy home firming up. If he could stop this from happening to others…no one deserved to be treated like this. 

“OK, so what next? Do I just take him?” Kingsley nodded.

“Pretty much. Since you’re doing this as a favour to the Ministry, we won’t expect you to pay for the ‘use’ of the slave. I’ll be in contact with you later apropos the interview – probably in a couple of weeks or so. It’ll give both of you time to settle down.” Harry nodded. “Draco, this is your new master,” Kingsley addressed the man kneeling on the ground in a stern voice. Malfoy twitched, but didn’t make any other sound. “Harry, give him an order, make sure the collar’s switched as it should have.”

“Malfoy, get up,” Harry ordered neutrally. There was no reaction at first, then, a moment later, the figure twitched slightly before _bolting_ to his feet.

“I’m sorry, master, I’m sorry!” Malfoy – Draco – gasped, his voice sounding absolutely terrified. Harry was rather discomforted – he had never heard the other man sound like that, not even in that bathroom with his blood pouring out of him.

“Easy,” he found himself saying gently. “It’s OK. Next time, you’ll know, alright?” Not expecting an answer, he turned to Kingsley. “Can I use your floo to get home?”

“Sure,” the man replied, gesturing towards the pot of floo powder on the hearth. Harry nodded in thanks and then turned to…his new slave.

“Come here, Malfoy,” he said with the same gentle tone. The man obeyed, his trembling increasing the closer he got to his new master. Harry reached out slowly towards his collar, pausing when the man cringed away, but then immediately returned to his position, as if he had been punished before for trying to avoid his master’s touch. He probably had, mused Harry darkly. Continuing his slow movement, he eventually gripped the collar and moved towards the fireplace. As they got closer to the flames, Malfoy started begging, low at first, but then louder.

“Master, please, please no, please master! I’ll be good, I’ll be good!” Harry looked at Kingsley helplessly. The man just looked back at him, a dark look in his eyes.

“We didn’t just find bruises, cuts and lash marks under his tunic – we also found burns,” he warned. Harry just glared at him.

“Thanks for warning me,” he snapped sarcastically. “Hush, Draco,” he said absently. The man immediately shut up, only the increased trembling that Harry felt under his hand indicating his continued fear. “Anything else you’d like to tell me about?” he invited Kingsley, hoping the answer was ‘no’. Instead, the Minister just looked thoughtful.

“I think you need to consider that whatever twisted tortures you can think of, if they don’t immediately lead to permanent physical injury, your new slave has probably experienced them.” Harry blanched. That was…that was more than he had expected. He looked at Draco with new eyes – even if Kingsley was exaggerating, they’d have one hell of a journey ahead of them.

Suddenly, Harry felt exhausted at the thought – he wasn’t a healer, he wasn’t a therapist. Why did he keep getting these cases? First an identity-confused former dark lord, now a completely traumatised torture victim. It was just more of being Harry Potter, he decided glumly. Coming out of his thoughts, he tossed a quick ‘thanks’ at Kingsley, though knowing it sounded a bit begrudging. Turning to Draco, he made an effort to remove the frown from his face.

“It’s OK, Draco,” he said soothingly, deciding that using the man’s first name would better separate them from their school-yard rivalry. “You haven’t been bad. I’m not punishing you. We’re going to use the floo to go home, OK?” The trembling didn’t subside. Sighing, Harry continued their movement towards the floo, taking a pinch of powder and dropping it into the flames. Miraculously, when the flames turned green, the slave under his hand relaxed very slightly and his trembling reduced a little. Good. They wouldn’t need to apparate, then. Sure, it would have been very awkward to walk through the Ministry like this, but Harry wasn’t horrible enough to force a man into a traumatising situation just for _pride_.

Calling out for his house, Harry stepped into the fireplace, the gentle grip he had on Draco’s neck pulling the man with him. Arriving in the sitting room, Harry quickly cleaned both of them off, trying to ignore the flinch at his wand. When they had stood still for more than a few seconds, Draco once more collapsed to his knees. Harry knelt in front of him, reaching out to grip his chin and lift his head. There was no resistance to his direction, but even with his head up, Draco’s eyes remained fixed on the floor.

“Look at me,” Harry instructed gently. Those grey orbs flicked towards him, and then away again, as if even a direct order from his master wasn’t strong enough to overcome his conditioning for more than a moment. Still, the brief eye contact they’d made was enough to confirm his suspicions – Draco didn’t recognise him.

The thought was so surprising, it took Harry back for more than a moment. How could the man who’d been a thorn in his side ever since they’d met at eleven not recognise him? Heck, Harry had practically stalked him for a year and then had almost killed him, after he’d tried to torture Harry. What had been done to him that he’d _forgotten Harry_?

“Master, where have you been?” An irate voice broke into his thoughts. He looked up to see Tom storming into the room, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Dinner’s been ready for-“ he cut himself off, staring at the sight. “Master…?” he started slowly, his tone heavy with foreboding. Harry sighed, dropping Draco’s chin. He immediately returned to his almost prostrate position. Harry stood, muttering an absent-minded ‘stay here’ at the slave at his feet, then turned his eyes to the slave in the doorway.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” he suggested, his tone making it clear that it wasn’t _just_ a suggestion. With another flash of his eyes, Tom turned on his heel and stomped into the kitchen.

“You’re replacing me?” Harry was met with this accusation as soon as he entered the room. So surprised by it, he didn’t find a response in time to stop the continued diatribe. “You’re tired of me being…being not-submissive, so you went out to find a pretty little thing who’ll kneel at your feet without you having to put them there, who’ll be _grateful_ for everything you give them that they’ll kiss your hand and thank you in such a lovely tone of voice that you’ll be able to feel good about yourself and-“

“Tom!” Harry shouted, finally, completely exasperated. “Shut. Up,” he ordered. The man immediately did so, his eyes flashing even more. Crossing his arms and huffing, Tom made it very clear via non-verbal means that he was _not happy_. Well, tough. Because frankly, after the day he’d had, Harry was rather _not happy_ himself. Breathing in and out heavily, he brought up a hand to rub his temples. “I need a drink,” he muttered. Matching action to words, he summoned a glass and his firewhisky decanter. Pouring himself a measure, he sipped at it, closing his eyes in pleasure at the taste. Thus fortified, he opened his eyes again and gazed at Tom.

“Right. Let’s address these ridiculous accusations, shall we? Now, I’m not replacing you. Yes, your attitude has been pretty awful the last few days, but I understood why. That said, I’m not putting up with it any longer,” he said firmly, eyeing his slave. “You’ve had your chance to sulk over your breakdown, now put it behind you and let’s see a return of the Tom I’d been starting to see before, OK? The Tom that actually _works_ with me and is vaguely helpful rather than the Tom who acts like a brat. Understood? You’re allowed to speak.”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied, begrudgingly. That was OK, Harry could deal fine with passive-aggression; it was the outright arguing and deliberate disobedience that Harry refused to deal with. He reckoned Tom had been punished more by the collar in the last two weeks than the last two _months_. Harry had had to resist using _Punire_ more than a couple of times – he hadn’t been pleased when he came back home to find dinner wasn’t cooked, for example, due to Tom being up in the library researching how to escape the collar. Not that Tom knew that Harry knew that he was researching how to escape, but even so.

“OK, good. Because I’m going to need your help,” Harry continued seriously. He saw the effect his words had on his slave when Tom’s glare lightened a little and his arms loosened very slightly. “That slave through there is Draco Malfoy, or at least, what remains of him.”

“What do you mean, master?” Tom asked, the begrudging edge now replaced with unease. Harry looked at him steadily.

“You know how you were worried that you’d lose your mind to slavery? As far as I can tell, he _has_.” Harry shook his head, his lips pressing into a single line. “He’s…he’s broken, and I don’t know how to fix it.” The words rushed out of him like water from a faucet. Because it was true, Harry realised. The man kneeling on the floor in the sitting room bore no resemblance to the Malfoy he had known, and while Harry hadn’t _liked_ the man he’d been, he’d had a personality. This man…there was nothing left but the slave, from what Harry had seen so far. Looking into his eyes had been the biggest clue – they had been completely lifeless; it was like Draco was dead inside and just waiting for his body to get the message and stop moving. And that? Harry didn’t know if it was possible to come back from that. “So…so,” he grappled for words. “I would _appreciate_ if you can help me help him, as much as we can. His sentence ends in April and as he is now, there’s no way he could be released into the world.”

Tom looked at him, his eyes unreadable. Harry couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Was he jealous that Draco’s sentence had an end when his didn’t? Surely he couldn’t be jealous of _Draco_ – after everything Harry suspected the other man had been through, Harry couldn’t believe anyone could feel anything but horror. But this was _Tom_ he was thinking of; the man’s reactions were not always the most logical. Finally, he dipped his head in a nod.

“You’ll help?” Harry clarified.

“I’ll try, master,” Tom corrected, his voice sounding neutral for the first time in what seemed like ages. “It’s not something I’m accustomed to doing but…I got him into this situation, I suppose the least I can do is try to help him out of it.” And, Harry supposed as he thought about it, from one perspective, that was true – if Tom hadn’t been Lord Voldemort, there would have been no Death Eaters to join. But Tom wasn’t the only factor in this situation – Lucius Malfoy had played a big part in it, as had Draco himself. But if feeling guilty about Draco being in this situation convinced Tom to try helping, then well and good.

“OK, good. Thank you,” Harry said, suddenly feeling a rush of gratitude. This didn’t seem so big, now he knew they’d be able to work on it together. “I suppose I’d better get Draco. Is supper something that can be stretched for three people?” Tom shrugged.

“It’s just rice and a curry mix, so probably. But master?” Harry made a questioning noise. “Do you know when he last ate?” Huh, that was a good point. Given how emaciated he looked, Harry suspected his previous master had ascribed to the ‘one bowl of gruel a day’ method.

“Good point,” Harry admitted aloud. “Can you make a cup-a-soup or something for him, maybe?” Tom went to check the cupboards to see if they had any packet soup around. Holding up a packet triumphantly after rustling around in the corner cupboard for a few moments, Tom gave him a nod, his mouth quirking slightly at the corners.

“I think that can be arranged,” he replied finally. Harry smiled back at him, then turned to go get Draco.

XXX

Tom heated up a kettle on the hob, pouring it into a mug and stirring the soup powder into it. With one ear, he paid attention to the passageway, eventually hearing two sets of steps on the stairs. Dishing up the food, he placed it on the table as Harry slid into his chair.

“Now, you can sit here, Draco,” Harry told the newest member of the household, pointing at a chair opposite Tom’s normal place. Tom wanted to roll his eyes – Harry hadn’t realised Draco had already knelt down by his chair and wasn’t paying any attention to where he was pointing.

“Master,” Tom broke in with a note of exasperation in his voice. “Look.” Harry looked.

“Oh. Draco, you don’t have to kneel during the meals, you can sit at the table.” Predictably, Draco didn’t respond. Tom sighed. Harry had been right when he’d said that he had no idea of what to do in a situation like this. Tom had also been telling the truth when he’d said that he had no experience in _helping_ traumatised people, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have experience with them full stop. Granted, the experience he did have was primarily based in breaking them further until they gave him the information he wanted or _did_ what he wanted. But from what he’d learnt there and his own experience at the beginning of the year when he had tried to fight the conditioning of the last few months…well, there was no way Draco was going to be able to sit at the table and eat normally as if nothing had happened.

“Master,” he sighed. Harry looked up at him. “It’s not going to work,” he said simply.

“Why not?” Harry asked belligerently. “He doesn’t have to kneel while eating – you don’t!” Tom looked at him steadily.

“No,” he agreed, “but it’s probably better not to change everything at once.” An idea of an analogy occurred. “Remember when you first went to Hogwarts. Did you ever eat too much and end up having to run to the bathroom to be sick?” Harry looked away.

“I’d learned that lesson _before_ I went to Hogwarts,” he murmured. Tom nodded slowly.

“It’s like that. If you change too much at one time, he’s not going to take it well, master. In fact, it could be worse than useless and actually set any progress back. Right now, what is more important – that he eats or that he sits at the table?”

“That he eats,” admitted Harry. “But I hate treating him like…”

“Like a slave,” suggested Tom, though as he said the words, he knew they were unfair. Harry’s glare told him that his master had felt they were unfair.

“I treat _you_ like a slave – that doesn’t mean I expect you to be like _this_.” Tom opened his mouth to argue, but in the end shut it again. Because while it was true that in certain respects, Harry _did_ treat Tom like a slave, in many respects he _didn’t_. But if he hadn’t realised that, Tom wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. In the end, he changed his words.

“Perhaps that was the wrong way of putting it, master, but you’re going to have to acknowledge that the slavery you have practised and the slavery this man has experienced are likely worlds apart.” He ignored the ‘good’ that his master muttered, though he was relieved to hear it. “You can’t move him from one world to another directly – it has to be a series of small steps. Change the most important things first, and recognise that the less important ones may never change.” Harry was looking at him in a funny way.

“I thought you said you hadn’t had any experience in this sort of thing? You sound rather knowledgeable for someone with no experience.” Tom hesitated, then looked away.

“I said I hadn’t had any experience in _helping_ , master,” he admitted in a low voice. Then, looking towards his master and locking gazes with almost defiance in his voice, he continued. “I know the process of _breaking_ someone intimately. It stands to reason that I can apply the same concepts in reverse.” There was a long pause as Harry took that in.

“I see,” was all he said in the end, his voice neutral. Tom wasn’t sure whether he’d received the reaction he’d expected. Frankly, he thought not. “So, what do you suggest we do here, then?”

“See if he’ll drink from the mug on his own. If he won’t, he’s probably used to being hand-fed, so you’ll have to hold the mug for him.”

“I don’t want to treat him like a _baby_ ,” Harry exclaimed. Tom shrugged.

“Then he might not get anything to eat tonight.” Sighing heavily, Harry started trying to coax Draco into eating. Tom slid into his own chair and started his food – it was already getting cold, he noted with displeasure.

Next to him, Harry gave up trying to get Draco to eat by himself. Holding the mug and tilting it, Harry got him to drink the contents of the mug. The man looked nauseous by the end of it, but fortunately the contents of his stomach stayed where they should. His duty done, Harry then turned to his food. Tasting it, he grimaced briefly, casting a warming charm on it.

“It would have been warm if you’d been home on time,” Tom sniped, regretting the words as soon as they’d emerged from his mouth – he’d promised to _try_. Harry slammed his hand on the table and glared at him, Draco jumping sharply at the sound.

“For Merlin’s sake, Tom! You know what I was doing! I _would_ have been home on time if I’d had any option!” Tom lowered his eyes to the table, guilt squirming in his gut. A brief flick of his eyes to the white-haired man kneeling next to his master reminded him that everything could be a _lot_ worse.

“I’m sorry, master,” he murmured. Harry took in a sharp breath.

“Is the collar making you apologise?” he asked suspiciously. Tom shook his head, flicking his eyes back up.

“No, master. I…I said I’d try, and I will. It’s just…” he wasn’t sure how to finish, so just waved his hand vaguely. Harry sat back in his chair, his gaze calmer.

“I know,” Harry replied, quietly. “But…I’m trying too, Tom. And this is _my_ home as well. It…it hasn’t been _pleasant_ coming home recently.” Tom winced. He hadn’t really been thinking about his impact on his master. He’d been more concerned with his own dark emotions, his own fear and shame.

His experiences on New Year’s Day had revealed things that might have been better buried. The revelations he had come to had been…disconcerting. He’d been spending the last two weeks trying to deny a good number of them, principally the ones which seemed to undermine his desire to be free. And the way he’d been denying them? He’d been trying to act in ways that proved he was still himself. He’d been defiant, angry, aggressive. He’d triggered the collar so many times he’d lost count, and each time he had relished the pain because it proved he still had independent thought. It proved that without the collar moderating his actions, he’d still be able to behave normally.

Now, looking back, especially with the example of Draco in front of him…he realised how immature he’d been acting. Like the ‘brat’ Harry had called him, he’d been acting out for the sake of acting out, and he hadn’t been thinking about the impact it was having on Harry. Because honestly, even in the middle of his _sulk_ , he wouldn’t have been able to argue that Harry deserved him acting like that, not after everything the man had done for him.

No, he decided. He would be free in a few months. Until then, he would do his best to show through his actions that he was grateful for how kind Harry had been. After that time, he would disappear and they would never meet again. He forcefully shoved the regret that that thought evoked far, far away. He would be a good slave for Harry while he was here, and then he would be gone and that would be that.

So for Harry’s sake, he would try. And that started with a sincere apology, much as the thought of giving it tore at the little pride left in him. Harry deserved his attempt. And he deserved more than Tom creating a persona and using it to make his words and actions easier, for all that Tom worried about what acting like a ‘good’ slave would do to him by the time he managed to get free.

“I’m sorry, master,” he said again, sincerity in his voice. “I…I _have_ been a…a brat over the last two weeks. And you’ve been a lot more patient than I really deserve. You’ve chosen not to punish me when…when you really could have.” He swallowed, having to make several attempts to force the next words out. “If…if you…if you wanted to…to…p-punish me, you…you’d be well-within your rights.” His stomach a bundle of nerves, he suddenly felt wrong sitting in the chair.

Following his instincts, he slid down to the floor, ending up on his knees beside Draco, who didn’t react to his movement. Looking at him, he was suddenly hit by a wave of jealousy – here was a well-trained slave who didn’t question where his place was. And then equally strongly, he was hit by a wave of horror that he had thought such things – he didn’t want to _be_ a well-trained slave…did he? If anything, surely his only aim was to _seem_ like one. Once more, the conflicting feelings threatened to tear him apart. But this time, instead of lashing out at Harry, he gritted his teeth and forced them away.

“Tom…” his master trailed off. “Tom, look at me,” his master gently ordered him. Tom followed his instructions, allowing Harry to see the emotions that swam in his eyes – guilt, sincere regret, humiliation, confusion… The green-eyed man muttered something like ‘give me strength’ which Tom almost felt offended at, except that he knew he _had_ been a real trial recently. “Look, I said I understood why you were acting in that way. And I meant it when I said I wouldn’t put up with it anymore. But I’m not going to punish you for being upset. It’s just…it hasn’t been pleasant to be around you in the last two weeks, and I don’t want us being at odds while trying to help Draco – I doubt it would do his progress much good.”

Another wave of jealousy ran through Tom – how come Harry cared more about Draco’s feelings than his own? There and then, Tom decided that he would make sure Harry didn’t put so much effort into Draco that he messed up either his studies or his Auror work. Tom would take on Draco’s care if he had to, just to make sure Harry wasn’t affected. Harry continued. “So just…from now on, please try to _help_ me, rather than hinder me. And get rid of that attitude, will you – it does nothing but cause problems for _both_ of us.”

“Thank you, master, for your leniency. I’ll be better,” was all Tom said in response. Feeling a weight lift off him at his master’s forgiveness, he bowed his head once, then returned to his chair to finish off his food. After looking at him for a while, Harry did the same.

“Would you do it again?” Harry asked him after a long period of silence, when they had both almost finished. Tom looked up at him.

“Do what, master?”

“Break someone. If you were free to do it. After your experiences here.” Tom had to think about it for a while. In the end there was only one answer he could honestly give.

“I don’t know,” he replied, and he knew he sounded as lost as he felt.

XXX

Harry left the cleaning up to Tom as usual. He’d barely been aware of the taste of the meal, so wrapped up in first Draco and then Tom. For a moment, he wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew – with two slaves in the household, both depending on him in different ways, plus his Auror training, plus his NEWTs work, he was feeling a bit thinly spread. But it was all so important! Sighing, he stood up from the table and moved towards the door. A moment later, he was aware of Draco standing up and hurrying to follow him a pace behind. If Draco was going to make it a habit of following around, it would get irritating _very_ quickly.

Heading to the sitting room, he plopped down in his favourite armchair and stared into the fire. Draco quickly knelt at his feet in his usual curled over position. It couldn’t be comfortable for him, mused Harry idly. Sighing again, he looked back at the flames, becoming mesmerised by their flickering dance. He had work to do, he knew that. He had eight essays due that week for Hogwarts, and he’d only done five of them and it was already Wednesday. He had to do three essays over the next two nights, and he definitely wouldn’t get them done in one night unless he pulled an all-nighter. Not to mention, of course, two Auror assignments, though those could be done at the weekend, thank Merlin. But frankly, after the day he had had, he was struggling to find the motivation.

Looking back at Draco, he realised there was something else he needed to do. Groaning, he stood and walked out of the room, his persistent shadow following irritatingly close behind. Climbing the stairs, he opened the door of the room opposite Tom’s.

“This is your room, Draco,” he explained tiredly. “You can use the bed and all other facilities in the room, if you need the permission. In fact, although I suspect you won’t take advantage of it for now, you have permission to use any furniture in the house except when I am present in the room. The exception for that is the kitchen – you can sit at the table while we eat. Understand?” Draco was silent until the collar punished him.

“I’m sorry, master!” he gasped out after twitching slightly.

“You don’t need to be sorry, just tell me that you understand what I said.”

“I understand, master,” Draco replied obediently. Harry looked at him with narrow eyes. That…that sounded more like him responding to Harry’s final words than actual understanding…. A brief thought passed through Harry’s head that this was all Malfoy taking him for a ride, but he dismissed it in the same instant – there had been far too much evidence up to this point that Draco was too broken to even _begin_ to consider pretending to act like this to flummox Harry. Another thought passed through his head – the rules encoded into Draco’s collar would be the guidebook’s basic rules. He’d have to do that whole talk again… Groaning, Harry felt like hitting his head against a convenient wall, but had second thoughts after eyeing the rather solid-looking wood.

Heading towards his bedroom, he paused outside the door.

“You are not allowed in my bedroom,” he instructed firmly. “Understand?”

“I understand, master,” Draco repeated obediently. Harry’s suspicions that he was just repeating rather than expressing real understanding were proven a moment later – as Harry entered his room, after taking down the wards, Draco tried to follow him in.

“No,” Harry told him, more sharply than he’d intended. “Don’t come in my room.”

“Yes, master,” Draco said obediently, and knelt by the entrance. Harry shook his head – so apparently direct orders were the only things that worked. Raiding his closet once again for a set of clothes, he contemplated having to take Draco out shopping and almost groaned again. Then a thought hit him – what if Tom did it?

Thinking back to the guidebook, he couldn’t recall if the slave needed the master present to _enter_ a warded area. He knew Tom couldn’t _leave_ a warded area without him, but the muggle area they’d visited to get Tom’s clothes wouldn’t be warded…. Deciding to check the guidebook later – he’d probably better do it anyway to remind himself of the rules he needed for Draco – Harry chose a set of clothes which he figured he could resize to fit his new slave. He missed out the shoes, though – not only did he not have enough pairs to easily lose a set, but he figured Draco wouldn’t be leaving the house any time soon. Plus, resized shoes never fit particularly well. It would be better if he got Tom to find a couple of potential pairs when he was out. If he could go out, that was.

Going to his medicine cabinet, he hovered over a few choices. Well, he’d definitely need the bruise balm and a general healing salve; that was for certain. If Kingsley was right, and Draco’s reaction to fire certainly seemed to indicate he was, he’d also need some burn paste. He didn’t have any of the strength St Mungo’s had used on Tom – general burn paste was only strength 1 or perhaps 2 – but he hoped that the burns wouldn’t be deep enough to need it. Anything else? Maybe a sleeping potion for tonight? Harry decided to hold off on that until he knew the situation better – long-term use of sleeping potions was dangerous.

Grabbing the vials he had decided on, he left the room, closing the door and restoring the wards once he was out.

“Here,” he said, handing the clothes to Draco. The slave stood up and obediently took the items, but then just held them with no recognition of what to do next. Harry eyed him thoughtfully. “Take one step backwards.” Draco obeyed. “Turn around.” Draco obeyed. “Kneel.” Draco obeyed with his usual alacrity. Hmm. He responded very well to clear, direct orders. What about slightly more complex ones? “Draco, go downstairs to the sitting room. Find the book on my desk entitled ‘The Slave-owners Guidebook’. Take it and go kneel by my desk chair.”

“Yes, master,” Draco responded, bowing slightly and then turning to go down the stairs. Harry followed at a few paces behind. The man went into the sitting room. He went to Harry’s desk, but he didn’t find the correct book – he took a different one that was about Charms which was the closest one he could see. He then knelt by the chair where Harry had sat earlier, his head bowed. Interesting. So what conclusions could Harry draw from that?

“It looks like his cognitive abilities have been reduced to almost nothing, master,” Tom’s voice said from behind his shoulder, making him jump. Harry turned to shoot the man a half-hearted glare for giving him a surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked, though having an idea. Tom shrugged.

“I heard your instructions. It doesn’t appear that he feels he has permission to read, even to fulfil his master’s order. That is if he is even capable of reading at the moment.” Harry frowned.

“Draco Malfoy is definitely capable of _reading_. He went to Hogwarts for seven years. Or was it six?” Thinking about it, Harry had no idea if Malfoy had gone back to school for his Seventh year. Putting the thought out of his time – it wasn’t really relevant at the moment – he looked at Tom for answers. The man hesitated before answering.

“There are… _techniques_ which some witches and wizards can use to…endure difficult times. It’s possible that the person we’re seeing actually _isn’t_ capable of many skills that he should be.” Harry nodded slowly.

“Is there a way to test whether that is the case?” Tom shrugged.

“The best way would be Legilimency to see if what I suspect is true.” Harry eyed him, not comfortable with letting Tom go rooting through Draco’s mind.

“Is there any _other_ way?” Tom grimaced.

“It’s possible to form a strong suspicion just based on his behaviour over a period of time, but Legilimency really is the most effective way.” Harry nodded slowly.

“Well, let’s see what happens for a while first. Maybe once he knows he’s in a safe place, he’ll start coming out of his shell.”

“Perhaps, master,” Tom replied, his tone as dubious as Harry felt.

XXX

Tom watched his master go to his desk and collect the book from Draco with a ‘thank you’, not even a hint that it was the wrong book and the wrong place. Giving another command, he got Draco to move closer to where he was sitting at his desk. If what Tom suspected was true…Draco honestly _couldn’t_ have fulfilled the commands any better. He sighed mentally, his thoughts irritated – he didn’t like the idea that they’d have a third person here for the next few months. He didn’t like the knowledge that someone else would get to see him vulnerable in front of his master. He didn’t like that his master would give his attention to someone else. But then Tom was hit with a wave of guilt as the same thought from earlier returned – if he hadn’t been Lord Voldemort, Draco wouldn’t now be in this position.

“Tom,” his master said with a hint of panic in his voice. “Help?” Looking towards the situation, Tom was torn between amusement and feeling disturbed. While he’d been lost in his thoughts, somehow Draco had ended up completely naked, kneeling on all fours in front of Harry, _presenting_ himself. There was horror too – not an inch of the blond’s skin had escaped injury of some sort, though his face was better off than most of him.

“What did you tell him to do, master?” Tom asked, a note of exasperation in his voice.

“I just told him to take off his tunic!” Harry almost squeaked, doing his best to hide his eyes from the sight in front of him. A part of Tom purred at the realisation that when _he’d_ been half-naked, Harry had drunk up the sight with a hungry look in his eyes; now with a completely naked young man in front of him, he was desperate to look away. When he realised what he was thinking, Tom shoved that thought away with a feeling of desperation – he _didn’t want_ his master getting any ideas about how attractive he was, remember!

“Why did you do that?” Tom asked to distract himself.

“I just wanted to get him to put on the healing salves before getting dressed in his new clothes. I didn’t realise he wasn’t even wearing _underwear_ ,” Harry wailed. Tom sighed.

“Order him to sit up, then.” His master nodded.

“Draco, sit up and turn around to face me.” The slave obeyed immediately, shuffling forwards so he was between Harry’s knees. “What’s he doing now?” asked Harry, the note of panic back in his voice.

“I’d say he thinks you’d like him to suck your dick,” Tom said baldly.

“What?!” exclaimed Harry, scooting away with his hands over his crotch, looking at the approaching slave with the kind of trepidation usually reserved for a stalking lion. “Draco, stop!” He did, freezing instantly. Harry looked back up at Tom, the expression on his face one of disbelief.

“You don’t really think…”

“Master,” Tom started with exasperation, losing his patience with his master’s obliviousness. “Of course he did, just as before when you told him to take off his tunic, he thought you wanted to fuck him.” Harry looked as if he was about to be sick, a green tinge to his skin.

“But I…But I _wouldn’t_!” Tom sighed again.

“ _He_ doesn’t know that,” he pointed out, trying to rein his irritation back in. He supposed he should be taking this whole situation as a good omen – if Harry found the idea of taking advantage of Draco so disturbing, that was a good sign he wasn’t likely to enforce it on Tom anytime soon. _But he’s clearly not attracted to Draco_ , a little voice inside him murmured; _he's attracted to_ you. Pushing the thought aside as he had been doing with all thoughts of that nature recently, Tom turned his attention back to the situation at hand.

“Master, think about it,” he murmured gently, walking forward until he was next to them. Dropping to his own knees without thinking about it, he lifted Draco’s chin, the man flinching from him, but obeying the pressure of his hand regardless. Draco’s face was completely blank, his eyes lifeless. Tom met his master’s eyes. “Look.” Harry looked. “Does it appear to you like this is an unusual situation for him?”

“No,” admitted Harry, his voice hoarse and sickened. Tom let Draco’s chin drop once more.

“I would bet anything that whatever else he has been subjected to, being used by his master for sexual gratification was a regular, if not daily occurrence.” There was a pause.

“So you’re telling me that not only has Draco been beaten to hell and back, but he’s also so used to _rape_ that he expects it from me?” It wasn’t really a question, for all that it was phrased as one. Finally, his master was understanding. Tom nodded, but felt obliged to add something.

“It’s not rape, master. It’s not possible to rape a possession – such a designation is reserved to beings with the capacity to say ‘no’. We are your slaves – if you order, we are expected to obey, regardless of our wishes.” A part inside him questioned his own impulse to be honest, when his master’s misunderstanding made him safer.

“Well to hell with that,” snarled Harry suddenly. Tom raised an eyebrow at the sudden change in tone, aware of Draco flinching slightly, their positions so close he could feel the other man’s body-heat. “To me, it doesn’t matter what your statuses are on paper: if you don’t want it, it’s rape. End of. Draco, look at me,” he instructed, his voice rough. The slave obeyed. “I don’t want you touching me sexually, and I don’t expect to use you sexually either.”

“Yes, master,” the white-haired slave said, but both Tom and Harry could hear the lack of true comprehension in his voice. Tom sighed.

“You’ll need to give him very direct commands, master. He doesn’t seem capable of understanding anything more than that.” Harry set his teeth, his jaw twitching.

“Fine. What do you suggest I say, then?” His voice was highly irritated, but Tom had been with him for long enough to know that it wasn’t directed at him, but at the situation.

“Tell him not to touch your dick. Tell him not to present himself to you naked. Give him clear expectations of his behaviour in direct and specific language.” Harry groaned.

“And I _still_ need to deal with the basic rules encoded in the collar. How the hell am I going to do that – it’s not like I can talk to him the way I did you that first day. And what am I going to do with him during the day if he can’t understand more complex instructions? I’m sure as hell not taking him with me!” Tom thought about it carefully. It was good question.

“Master,” he said slowly, an idea coalescing in his mind. “Can we try something?” Harry waved at him wearily.

“Go ahead. Frankly, anything you can suggest to make this whole situation more bearable…I _still_ have an essay to do after this…” Tom eyed him with concern – he sounded stressed. More stressed than necessary.

“I’ll help you with your essay, master,” Tom assured him. “If I find the books for you, that should decrease the time you need to write it.” Harry shot him a grateful smile which made a warm feeling pool in his belly. Both discomforted by and tempted to luxuriate in the feeling, Tom hurriedly continued. “But what I was thinking was…what if you could order the collar to react to me in your absence? Then I could keep an eye on Draco during the daytime.” Harry eyed him suspiciously.

“How can I be sure you won’t just use this to your advantage?” he asked dubiously. Tom wanted to feel hurt at his lack of trust but…he wasn’t wrong to think so. Because despite his guilt about Draco being in this position in the first place, despite his genuine desire to help his master, there was still a part of him that rejoiced at the idea that for _once_ in this new life, he wouldn’t be at the bottom of the social ladder. The thought of having Draco kneel at his feet and obey him like _he_ was the master…it was temptingly delicious.

But that hadn’t actually been why he’d offered. They were just things that sweetened the pot. He’d actually been honest as to his true motives – Draco wouldn’t be able to follow complex instructions and would probably just end up kneeling in one position all day in the absence of any other direction. His master didn’t want to take the blond to work with him, understandably, so what other choice did they have? But his master had asked him a question.

“Order me,” Tom said simply. Harry frowned.

“What?”

“If you’re worried about me taking advantage of Draco, order me not to. The collar will make sure I obey.” Harry stared at him. Tom didn’t blame him. Frankly, if someone had told him at the beginning of all this that he would be _asking_ for orders…he’d probably have tried to curse them. And then he’d probably have ended up unconscious, but still.

“Alright,” Harry murmured, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Since you _asked_ for it, and all. Tom, if this works and the collar _does_ respond to you, you are not allowed to use it to treat him any differently than I would treat you. You are not allowed to use him to do your work for you. You are not allowed to use either punishment or reward function of the collar.” He paused, clearly thinking things through. “You are not allowed to order him to do anything you don’t think I would order you to do. And you are _definitely_ not allowed to order him to do anything sexual.” The last he said with some fire, pinning Tom with a fierce gaze. Tom bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement – not that he’d actually do that. Even as Lord Voldemort, he’d never personally engaged in such things, though to be fair, that was probably more because as a result of all the rituals he’d done, his libido had been pretty much nil.

“Yes, master,” he agreed easily. “Shall we test if it works now?” Harry nodded slowly, a small amount of trepidation in his eyes. There and then, Tom decided that he would prove to Harry that he could be trusted in this matter.

“Draco,” Harry said firmly. There was the slightest of changes in the slave kneeling beside Tom, showing that he was paying attention. “Obey Tom unless it contradicts an order from me.”

“Yes, master,” Draco acknowledged. Harry flicked his eyes at Tom, raising his eyebrows as if to say ‘go on’. Tom cleared his throat, anticipation rising in him, much as he tried to conceal it.

“Draco, look at me,” he ordered. For a moment the other man didn’t move. Then, suddenly flinching, he twisted his head so he was looking at Tom, though not meeting his eyes.

“I’m sorry, master!” he gasped out. The excitement he felt at having been obeyed after so long being forced to obey was soured by hearing the word which belonged to his master being directed at him.

“Don’t call me master.” The words were out before he could even think about _why_ he’d had such a strong reaction to them. “Call me…Tom.”

“Yes, Tom,” Draco replied, bowing his head once more. Tom glanced up to see his master looking thoughtfully at him.

“It worked, master,” said Tom unnecessarily, a bit discomforted by his master’s gaze.

“Yes, it did,” Harry agreed, still with that searching look. Then he flicked his gaze back to Draco and Tom breathed. “I guess we’d better get his injuries seen to,” he murmured wearily.

“Master,” started Tom, hating to hear the tiredness in his voice. “Why don’t you get started on your essay? I’ll sort Draco out and then come and help you with your research.”

“Would you?” once again, there was that thankful look which made a warmth in the depths of his stomach grow. “That would be great!” exclaimed Harry, a heart-felt gratitude in his voice. Tom nodded.

“Of course. But master, before you go, perhaps change the rules for Draco’s collar? I don’t think it matters so much if he understands them or not at this point: I’ll be there to remind him of what to do in the moment. But I’m not sure I can change the basic rules, even if you’ve told him to obey me.” Harry nodded thoughtfully.

“I suppose that makes sense.” Rifling through the guidebook, he found the list of basic rules. “OK, let me see. OK. Draco, you’re allowed to eat and drink at any time you are hungry or thirsty. You may use any item in the kitchen cupboards to make food, and you may consume any item in the kitchen except for alcohol and any item I’ve specifically told you not to eat. That’ll do for the first one. Now…the second rule: you’re allowed to use any item of furniture for its proper use as long as you don’t damage it. When you’re in my presence, I expect you to stand, kneel or sit on the floor, unless we’re at the table eating together.” He looked at Tom. “That way it’s fair for both of you.” Tom inclined his head, having already worked that out. “You’re allowed to wear the clothes I’ve given you. I’m going to give you some new clothes soon.” Again, he looked at Tom. “Actually, I was thinking about that – do you think you’d be able to _enter_ a warded place without me there? I mean, do you think I could take you out of the wards before I leave in the morning, and then you go and buy him some clothes?” Tom thought about it.

“I don’t see why not,” he remarked. “I definitely can’t _leave_ the wards without you touching me or my collar, but when we came back from that shopping trip when I first arrived, you didn’t have to touch my collar when we returned.” Harry nodded slowly.

“OK, we’ll test that later. Because I don’t have time to get him clothes before Saturday, and it really needs to be done as soon as possible.”

“Very well, master,” Tom replied. Harry looked back at Draco.

“You’re allowed to speak whenever, as long as you’re respectful about it. Uh…I think that was it?” He looked back at Tom who considered it for a few moments before shrugging.

“I think that covers it, master.”

“OK, good. I’ll get started with my essay then.” So saying, he shifted his chair so he was at his desk and turned to his studies with an air of relief. Tom looked at Draco. Right. Deciding that it would be better to do this away from Harry so that they didn’t disturb him, Tom stood and took the potions bottles from Harry’s desk.

“Draco, come,” he ordered quietly, walking over to the fireplace. The blond scrambled to his feet and hurried over, kneeling at Tom’s feet as soon as Tom gave him the command. Tom looked down, feeling strangely mixed at the sight. Of course, there was some of the expected elation, but that wasn’t all. There was a nagging sense of discomfort, of something _wrong_ about the situation, accompanied by a curl of guilt. He had spent countless hours in this sitting room, kneeling, lounging, sitting, but all of it on the floor; at the feet of his master. Taking a different position…well, it felt wrong. Quickly, Tom joined him on the floor, a feeling of relief overtaking him at the familiar pose.

Taking the burn paste, Tom held it out to Draco.

“Take this, Draco,” he instructed quietly. The man obeyed without lifting his eyes from the floor. His hand, now holding the potions bottle, returned to his lap, still once more. “OK, good. Now, put it on your burns.” The hand didn’t move for a moment, and then it flinched, clenching slightly around the vial.

“Tom?” Draco asked, the tone in his voice not making it much different from ‘master’ would have been. Once more, it sent a wave of conflicting emotion through him. Pushing the feelings aside, Tom returned his attention to the helpless slave depending on him. Sighing, he realised that apparently, ‘put it on your burns’ was too complex a concept for Draco to deal with at the moment. What had his previous master _done_ to him? Or, if Tom’s suspicions were true, perhaps the question was more: what had Draco done to _himself_?

“Here, give me the bottle,” Tom ordered, resignation in his voice. Apparently he’d have to do it. Upon receiving the vial, he uncorked it. “Lie down on your front,” he ordered. The blond obeyed in an instant, moving his legs apart in a position he’d probably assumed many times.

“Tom…?” Tom looked up at his master’s questioning tone. Harry was looking at him, a slightly concerned look on his face. Apparently he was not _entirely_ wrapped up in his studies. “What are you doing?”

“It’s OK, master,” Tom reassured him. “I’m just going to put the salves on him – apparently he can’t do it himself.”

“I see,” replied Harry slightly dubiously, but he returned his gaze to the book in front of him, so he had at least _some_ trust in Tom. Tom, in turn, returned to his task, dipping his fingers into the bottle and spreading the paste onto all the burns he could see. There were more than a few, most of them on Draco’s buttocks and upper thighs. If Tom had to venture a guess as to their cause, he would say it looked like Draco had been beaten with a red hot poker, as it wasn’t just a burn but a bruise as well.

Deciding to finish the whole of Draco’s back before moving on to his front, Tom quickly fetched Draco’s old tunic so he could wipe his fingers off between pastes. Fortunately, as medical supplies that were often used in conjunction, none of them had ingredients that reacted badly with each other. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t use the bruise balm on the same injuries he’d already covered with burn paste – the combination of both would probably render them equally ineffective.

So, methodically treating one injury after another, he covered practically every inch of Draco’s skin from heels to neck with one salve or another. The most awkward bit was when he realised that there were injuries even around Draco’s anus. Feeling colour rising in his cheeks, he applied general healing salve there as quickly as possible, before moving on. Finishing Draco’s back, he gave them a few minutes to be absorbed. In that time, he found his thoughts wandering to why exactly he had found being called ‘master’ so…unappealing.

It was strange – he remembered how much he had enjoyed it as Voldemort, seeing all those proud purebloods debasing themselves by kneeling to him, kissing his robes, calling him ‘master’ in tones of adulation… But now all he felt was unease about the idea. Why? Was it because he’d become so used to calling Harry ‘master’ and himself being ‘Tom’ that anything different seemed wrong? Perhaps that was part of it, Tom admitted to himself, but it wasn’t all of it. No. Actually, thinking about it…he felt a similar sense of unease about many of his actions as Voldemort, and the idea of taking up that mantle once again when he was free…no. Suddenly, Tom realised that far from being proud of his actions as Dark Lord, as he had always been before, he was feeling…ashamed about them.

Where they had always seemed to demonstrate strength before, - the strength of being able to convince others, in being able to _control_ others, in making others _fear_ \- now they just reeked of _weakness_. Because what had all his so-called strength done for him, ultimately? It had made him arrogant: it had made him so prideful he could have died without even knowing how close he was to death. It had created bonds of loyalty so weak that most of the Death Eaters who knew who he was in his changed appearance had spurned him, had tried to attack him as soon as they knew they could do it without retribution. Far from fear being a strength he used to his own advantage, it had been a weakness that had driven him to mutilate his own soul and thereby sow the seeds of his downfall.

And then there was Harry. There was always Harry. He hadn’t had the advantages Voldemort had had – followers, immortality, knowledge, power – but he’d had his own power: his bravery and his ability to inspire loyalty, true loyalty. Voldemort had almost won, had had all the players in place to ensure his complete domination of the Wizarding world. But he hadn’t. Why? Because the Resistance continued fighting. Because the Order kept fighting. And most importantly, because _Harry_ kept fighting. With his two friends, he had brought Voldemort precariously close to losing his very life, despite all his safeguards. Even with all the advantages he had had, knowing what he knew now of Harry and his determination and the loyalty he inspired in others, Tom was rather glad it hadn’t actually come to an outright battle. Even if he had survived Harry, he might not have survived all those who would have risen to avenge his death.

But that hadn’t happened; instead, he had been enslaved. And he had lost everything but his life. However, after months spent in introspection, going over things again and again, he’d realised that most of it hadn’t been worth having, anyway.

That’s why he was uncomfortable with the title of ‘master’. He didn’t deserve it. Frankly, he didn’t even _want_ it anymore, given the mess that he’d made with it last time. So now he was ‘Tom’, and soon he would be someone else, someone completely different. Once he was free, he would create himself anew, become someone else, someone…insignificant. He’d always wanted to be recognised for who he was, special. But now, he saw where that path led. He didn’t want it anymore, because after everything? He didn’t trust himself with power or position. Not after the mistakes he had made.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he checked the applied pastes. They were starting to dry, but were still a bit wet.

“Stay here,” he told Draco, and then rose to go to his master. “Would you like me to get some books for you, master?” he asked, hoping that the man would say yes and give him an excuse to get out of his own head for a while. Harry looked up and took advantage of the pause to stretch. Tom found his eyes wandering down to caress the smoothly muscled expanse of Harry’s exposed stomach, but quickly jerked his eyes away before he was caught.

“Sure,” Harry said eventually, after finishing his stretch. “I’m working on Transfiguration – the Five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. I need to prove _why_ they’re exceptions based on Transfiguration theory.” Tom nodded.

“I know a few books where you should be able to find the information. I’ll get them for you now.” He turned to go to the library, but Harry called after him.

“What about Draco? Are you finished with him?” Tom paused and turned back to him.

“I’ve done his back, but the pastes need to dry a bit more before he can turn over for me to do his front,” Tom explained. He paused for a moment longer to see if Harry wanted to say something more, but when his only response was a short nod, he turned and disappeared upstairs.

Walking up the stairs, his mind still musing over things, Tom realised two things. First, that it had been almost disturbingly easy to slip back into being helpful and pleasant to his master. Into being a ‘good’ slave. Throughout the last two weeks of him trying to re-establish his independence, he’d been full of anger and guilt, each just feeding the other. Now, having decided that such actions were worse than pointless, and having apologised to his master and being forgiven, both weights had been lifted from him. He wasn’t sure he liked the implications of that, but…it felt good. It felt _natural_ , like he was slipping back into a familiar and comfortable skin. Having that amicable interaction back with Harry…it was so much better than the animosity fuelled exchanges they’d been having in the last two weeks, especially since every time Tom had snapped at Harry and he’d refused to respond in kind, the guilt in Tom had only grown. This evening, however, they’d…well, it hadn’t all been good, but by and large they had seemed to work together to tackle the problem that the broken slave in their midst presented. And that had been…good.

The second thing that Tom realised, this one with a lot less warm feeling, was that his master’s words regarding rape weren’t as reassuring as they had sounded at first. After all, what he had _actually_ said was ‘ _if you don’t want it, it’s rape’_. And Tom was starting to realise that, despite his best intentions, there _was_ a part of him that wanted…that wanted something from his master. It was a part of him that he’d tried to deny, because he knew for certain that he didn’t want to be _ordered_. Not with that. But because he knew there was some sort of…of _desire_ there, he was worried that should his master ever find out its existence, its very presence would offer the consent Harry might need. And then there would be no scruples barring him from just _taking_ what he so evidently wanted.

XXX

Harry stared blankly at his essay, his quill tip tapping against his lips. It was hard to concentrate, he had to admit. He’d only really been paying half-attention to his work; the rest of it had been on his two slaves. Merlin, that was strange to think! He had been getting used to Tom, starting to read the man’s moods and predict how he was likely to react based on previous situations. Now he had a new spanner thrown in the works.

Well, at least Tom seemed to be back to his previous self. Better, perhaps. Maybe the fortnight long tantrum he’d been throwing had got all his defiance and aggression out of his system for a while. Harry hoped so – he didn’t know how he’d manage to do everything he needed to with the addition of a highly-traumatised Draco thrown into the mix if Tom had continued with his unhelpful behaviour. Honestly, if Harry had known it was going to be this bad, he probably would have refused Kingsley, suggested they send the trauma-victim to Hermione. When Kingsley had said the slave was in a bad condition, he’d been imagining someone like Tom, but with more injuries and more submissive. But this…Surely Hermione would have been better than him who had no experience in psychology at all. Hermione had at least read some books about it!

Even while he thought about it, Harry acknowledged that the situation wouldn’t have been any better – Hermione was just as busy as him with her degree and full-time job, and Ron was also busy with Bill and his own NEWTs. No, much as he hated to admit it, maybe this was for the best. He might not have the knowledge of psychology, but he could learn, and at least he had the image which might prevent this from happening in the future. He already had some ideas of what to say during the interview.

Tom’s matter of fact words ‘ _it’s not possible to rape a possession’_ had been running through his head ever since they’d been spoken. Every time he remembered them, Harry felt sick once more. That either of them could think that he’d…that he’d do _that_? It was one thing for a stranger, like the healer at St Mungo’s, to assume based on previous experience or recorded cases, but surely _Tom_ didn’t think…. No, Harry decided. Surely not. He hadn’t seemed to behave in any way that suggested he was scared of that possibility. Good, because Harry would never force him, no matter how attractive he was – he’d rather _crucio_ himself. It didn’t matter that technically it was his ‘right’ to make use of his ‘possessions’: he’d never do it, and would make sure his disgust at anyone doing so came through clearly in the interview.

He’d been concerned for a while about Tom’s power over Draco. He’d accepted that it seemed to be the best solution to their problem, but he’d been a bit worried about Tom abusing him further – with what he knew of what Voldemort had done with power, he’d felt his concern was justified. The suggestion Tom had made to be _ordered_ not to take advantage had been, frankly, flabbergasting. He’d honestly never thought that Tom would make a suggestion that Harry ordered him to do _anything_. Naturally, it made Harry a bit suspicious – it was so outside his understanding of Tom’s character, that he felt there _must_ be something behind it. But what could he do? Tom was right – Draco needed someone with him throughout the day, and Harry _really_ didn’t want to take him to either Hogwarts or the Ministry. He couldn’t stay home with him, so that really only left one option…

So he’d been watching Tom, observing how he interacted with Draco. He’d been surprised a number of times. That Tom had knelt next to him _twice_ when he could have stood with Draco at his feet. That Tom had told Draco not to call him ‘master’ without any sort of prompt. That he’d actually been surprisingly gentle and understanding… There had been a few moments where Harry had been a bit concerned: when Tom had got Draco to lie on his front in a vulnerable position, especially. But Harry had been watching, and the man really hadn’t take advantage. Even when he’d had to spread paste on some…intimate areas, he had done it as quickly as possible and moved on. So, while Harry _did_ still have some concerns about the whole situation, he was willing to give Tom the benefit of the doubt. If the man broke his trust…well, they’d be hell to pay, but Harry found himself tentatively hoping that maybe Tom _wouldn’t_ betray his confidence in him.

By the time Tom came back with a pile of books, Harry had managed to turn his attention back to his work.

“Here are some books in which I found references, master,” Tom told him, putting the books on his desk. “I put a few bookmarks in places which I thought might be most useful.” Bless the man! Harry smiled gratefully up at his slave.

“Thank you!” he said with feeling. He saw a faint smile touch the corners of Tom’s mouth as he bowed his head slightly.

“I’m glad I could help you,” the man finally murmured, a tone of sincerity in his voice. Then, lifting his head, he met Harry’s gaze again. “Would you like me to get you anything else?” What a change from the Tom who had argued about fetching him parchment not so long ago, Harry marvelled mentally, but shook his head.

“No, I’m fine, thanks. Why don’t you go finish with Draco?” The man nodded and turned away, going to kneel once more at the blond’s side. Harry saw him test the dampness of the salves currently on his skin, then nod in satisfaction. With a quiet command, Draco turned himself over, his disturbingly blank face and lifeless eyes revealed once more. Again, Tom dipped his long fingers into the potions containers and started the process of spreading the salves on the wounds revealed.

Harry turned back to his essay, the process going a lot faster now that he had his literature prepared for him. Of course, he knew that in the normal set of events, it was important for him to find his _own_ supporting references because that way, he would learn other things from the book, but in this instance… Well, Harry was very glad that ‘helpful’ Tom had made a reappearance, and was tentatively hopeful that he might stick around for a bit longer.

XXX

Tom smoothed salve over Draco’s skin, each stroke across what used to be pale, unblemished skin. He lost himself in the motion, the unfamiliar position of actually moving to _heal_ rather than _hurt_. Every so often Draco made small noises if Tom accidentally pressed a bit hard on one of the marks and Tom found himself shushing the slave soothingly. It was a new side to him, and one he didn’t think he’d ever explored before. There had been no call for soft, healing actions at the orphanage – all it would have met with would have been ridicule and bullies gleefully taking advantage. The same was true at Hogwarts where the cold, judging eyes of Slytherin house would have seen it just as much as weakness. And then after Hogwarts? Well, he’d already been set on a path, hadn’t he?

It wasn’t that Draco mattered in any real way to Tom. How could he? Tom vaguely recalled the blond boy who had approached him with such excitement and brash self-confidence to receive his mark, then returned to him a shaking mess; a failure. He had punished the boy severely, he remembered. How ironic it was that he should now find himself that same boy’s primary care-taker, now he was a man broken by another master.

Life was full of those ironies, he mused as his eyes drifted over to his master. To think that he would submit willingly – for now – to the boy he’d done his best to kill… That he would feel concerned for the man’s stress levels; that he should offer more than he was required to do to _help_ the master he had become. If Lady Magic were real, perhaps the Fates were also in existence. If they were, they must find much to laugh about with these silly mortals.

Draco was done. Tom’s thoughts returned to the present as he realised he’d reached Draco’s neck once more. He’d dealt with the injuries around the slave’s private parts as hurriedly methodically as he had his anus. And now he was done. He could get dressed.

With individual orders, Tom got Draco to put on first the pair of trousers, then the shirt. They were too big for him, hanging off his thin frame like they were on a scarecrow.

“Master,” Tom called softly, not wanting to surprise the man. Harry looked up questioningly. Tom gestured at Draco.

“Can you resize the clothes, please?”

“Can’t you do it wandlessly?” Harry responded curiously. Tom considered it.

“I _can_ ,” he started slowly, “but my wandless resizing spells are not very…accurate,” he admitted. “I might make it too small or too big in the wrong place.” Harry sighed.

“I see.” Getting up, he came over. Draco made to kneel, but Harry stopped him with a quick command. With a measuring eye, Harry started the resizing process, letting the spell work slowly so they could see when it was approximately the right size. “There. You’re done, then?”

“I’ve done as much as I can,” Tom replied, handing the potions bottles back to him. “Because I didn’t want to combine two salves together, some of the injuries have only been partially treated, but they should be significantly better with a decent night’s sleep. I’ll probably have to do it tomorrow night, though.” Harry nodded.

“Fine. Do that, then.” Sighing, he cast a wistful look back at his desk and the waiting essay. “I suppose we’d better get him to bed.” Tom shrugged.

“I can do that, master,” he remarked. “Why don’t we go and test if I can enter a warded area without you present, since you’re already up?”

“That’s a good idea,” Harry conceded. “Draco, stay here. Sit down next to the fire or something.” He tossed at the blond offhandedly. Draco didn’t move.

“You need to give him very specific orders, master. Not choices,” Tom reminded him with a note of exasperation. Harry looked embarrassed. “Also, I wouldn’t suggest he sits – he’s got several burns on his buttocks.”

“I forgot,” he muttered. “Draco, lie down on the rug. On your side.” He flicked a glance at Tom as if to ask whether that was a good position. Tom nodded. It was better than most other positions, to be fair. Draco immediately obeyed. “OK, good. Stay there until Tom tells you to move.”

“Yes, master,” the slave acknowledged. Nodding, Harry left the room, Tom following. Reaching the entrance, Harry touched his collar until they were past the ward lines.

“OK, now stay there for a few minutes. I’m going to go back to the sitting room. If you’re not inside within five minutes or so, I’ll come back out,” Harry told Tom. Nodding, Tom leant against the gatepost. Harry disappeared back inside. Tom took a few minutes to just breathe the cold night air, looking at the other residents of Grimmauld Place. The people next door were watching the television, the intermittent light throwing strange shadows across the curtains they had drawn. Across the road, the inhabitants were having an argument – Tom could hear the sound of their shouts even through the thick walls and street between them.

Deciding enough time had passed, Tom walked towards the house, moving more tentatively as he approached the wardline. Gingerly stepping over it, he relaxed as his collar didn’t give a murmur. Opening the door, he was hit by a thought. Turning around, he made as if to leave again, but his collar sent a shock through him. Hmm, interesting.

“It worked, master,” he announced unnecessarily, entering the sitting room.

“So I see,” agreed Harry, relaxing back in his desk chair. “No problems?” Tom shook his head.

“No, but I couldn’t get back out once I was inside the wards.” Harry nodded slowly.

“So this wouldn’t work in a magical area. You’d end up getting trapped by whatever wards you entered without me.” Pulling out his wand, he conjured a small object. Tom moved closer to see what he was doing. The object was a disk with a clip on one edge. Harry tapped it with his wand and murmured a tracking charm. Looking back at Tom, Harry twisted his chair round and pointed at the floor near his feet. “Kneel there,” he instructed. Tom obeyed, curious about what Harry intended.

As soon as he was in position, Harry leant forwards and clipped the small disc to the D-shaped ring at the front of Tom’s collar. Tom frowned.

“Master…?” he asked warily. “That doesn’t say something like ‘property of Harry Potter’ does it?” If it did…well, Tom wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, as humiliating as that would be. But he didn’t like the idea…did he? To his relief, Harry shook his head with a small chuckle.

“No, though I could make it if you wanted me to,” he asked mischievously. Tom shook his head sharply, no doubt sporting an expression of distaste. “No, I didn’t think you’d want that,” Harry responded to him with a smirk. “It’s just a tracking charm. I don’t think I could put a tracking charm on the collar – it’s got too much magic in it anyway, so this is my compromise.”

“Why, are you worried about me running away?” Tom asked, not sure if he wanted the answer to be ‘yes’ or ‘no’. On one hand, he was _trying_ to be a good slave for Harry while he was still here, so he _wouldn’t_ try to run away until he’d got the collar off. On the other, he could see how Harry might not believe that.

“No, not at all,” Harry dismissed, sounding almost surprised that he’d come to the conclusion. Tom felt like rolling his eyes at his master’s naivety. He refrained, but it was a close thing. “It’s just in case there are some warded areas we don’t know about between here and the shops – if you do get caught, I want to know where you are. Hmm, hold still for a moment.” He leaned forwards and muttered another charm, tapping the disc. “There you are. If you hold it for more than five seconds, it will warm up and send me a notification that you need me. I’ll get to you as soon as possible.” Harry fixed Tom with a stern look. “I’ll probably have to run out of my training session, so please, don’t use it except for a last resort, OK?”

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged. “What should I do for money?” Harry nodded, digging in one of the desk draws. He pulled out a few twenties.

“Here. There’s about eighty pounds here – plenty for a few sets of clothes from the Oxfam shop, a pair of shoes and some underwear.” Then, hesitating again, he pulled out another twenty. “If you think we’re running low on anything in the kitchen, please pick it up too.” A thoughtful look came to his face. “In fact, if this works, we can probably make it a regular thing for you to go out and get the groceries – Merlin knows, I won’t miss having to go shopping on Saturdays when it’s always packed.” Tom nodded, actually feeling a bit cheerful at the thought. He’d been stuck in the house for so much of the time; it would be a treat to go out to somewhere normal, even if it was in the muggle world. In fact, at the moment, he preferred the muggle world – he didn’t attract stares there.

Finally, Harry dismissed him and returned to his essay. He’d already written almost three feet, Tom saw. Tom smoothly got to his feet and went over to Draco who was lying on his side, his face and eyes as lifeless as always. Ordering him to stand and follow, the slave obeyed, standing behind his shoulder as he’d been clearly trained to do. Getting to the door, Tom hesitated.

“Goodnight, master,” he said, finally. Harry looked up, surprise in his eyes.

“Goodnight, Tom,” he replied. They held eye contact for a moment before each turned away and continued their previous actions. It wasn’t the first time they’d wished each other goodnight, but it _had_ been a while since the last time.

Tom lay in bed after having got Draco settled – not easy: the man had almost had a panic attack at the thought of sleeping on the bed. In the end, Tom had told him to sleep on the thick rug to one side of the room. Baby steps and all that. Getting into the mood for sleep, Tom couldn’t help but think about that evening and something he had realised while treating Draco: the expanse of skin Tom had had laid out in front of him had done nothing for him, for all that he remembered admiring some other boys at Hogwarts. It was just…Draco was too pale, too skinny. Too broken.

When Tom thought about a man in his bed, he imagined leanly muscled arms and legs – nothing too big. He thought about feeling lithe strength against him, strong hands pinning his wrists as he fought against the hold, snapping and snarling in play as his partner laughed, then moaning because his lover knew _just_ what to do to provoke that reaction. He visualised running his hand along sleek skin, drawing a masculine groan as he played with sensitive areas. He imagined a partner who would challenge him, and who he could challenge in return.

Suddenly, he realised his fantasies had changed. It had been so long since he’d had them… When was the last time he’d visualised _anything_ sexual, for Merlin’s sake? Perhaps in his first few years after Hogwarts, before he’d made his third horcrux, for certain. Whenever he’d fantasised about older boys at Hogwarts, he’d always been the one making _them_ submit, manipulating a more physically powerful partner with his words or his magic; making them moan more because he enjoyed having the control over them than because he wanted them to feel pleasure. The few lovers he had taken had always been far more enamoured with him than he with them, and he’d liked it that way: he’d liked making them feel beholden to him, unable to live without him…and then dropping them once he was bored.

Then there had been his long period where he simply wasn’t interested in _anything_ carnal, developing a slight distaste for such intimacy and the insane actions it drove men and women to perform. Even once he had got his _human_ body back with all its hormones and needs, his libido hadn’t returned until recently – the shock of his enslavement and the battle which had ensued for his very mind focusing him purely on survival. But now, feeling more settled in his role and with the hearth-fire of hope banked in his heart, he had space for…other desires.

For the first time in a long, _long_ time, he slid a hand down his own body to a part that was starting to throb with need. And as he reached his peak, his mind filled with faceless forms that writhed and twisted erotically, his last image was that of green eyes, dark with lust, staring into his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings - Harry is given a slave to take care of who has experienced severe abuse - physical, mental and sexual. There are explicit references to and discussions over these experiences. Also, during the Ministry ball, we are shown the dire state that many slaves are in - the evidence indicates a wide range of abuses.
> 
> Is it bad that this chapter makes me want to write something where Harry and Tom set up a recovery centre for used and abused baby Death Eaters? Because really, Lady Magic’s punishment is pretty harsh for them considering they were kind of forced into it by the way they were raised and the fact that the war was at its height when they came out of Hogwarts. I suppose the same could be said of the supporters who just did a few things to help the Death Eaters or Voldemort’s cause, but I imagine them being older and more able to make decisions for themselves and distinguish right from wrong.


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The introduction of a new person into the house doesn't always go smoothly, and when that person is significantly traumatised, it can serve to raise issues perhaps they'd prefer to leave unburied... Against the greater political backdrop, Harry and Tom will need to decide and establish their positions. This will win them allies...and enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter :O A bit shorter than last time, but I kinda went over my self-imposed limit of 30k words there, so I think it's deserved. Thank you as always for your lovely feedback - it really keeps me going, I promise!
> 
> This chapter is a bit darker than the previous and the warnings really come into play here. Again, more specific warnings at the end. 
> 
> To be honest, I feel like this one and the next are kinda filler chapters - the build-up to to some major events in the last few chapters. I anticipate that this story will have around 10 chapters in total, but we'll have to see...
> 
> Also, as a side note, Vickironica and I have already been discussing ideas about a sequel and we have an idea which both of us love. It promises to be a bit less serious than this story, especially if Vickironica has a hand in it ;) The only problem is we're not sure who, or what, should be the 'big bad' of it all. I'll give you a hint about it though - time travel is involved. So...if you have any ideas about that, please tell me - I don't promise to use them, but if it sparks a plot idea, then it increases the chances of the fic being written...
> 
> Without any more ado, on with the chapter!

The next morning, Harry woke up as normal, taking a shower and getting dressed in his usual fashion. As he always did, he opened the door, only to almost trip over something that was _not_ normal.

“What…?” he murmured, sleep still fogging his mind. There was a lump outside his door. Frowning and lighting the tip of his wand, the lump resolved itself into a more recognisable form. Draco. Groaning, Harry considered it far too early to be dealing with his most traumatised slave. Not that he had so many of them that he could rank them in order of level of trauma, but still.

“Draco, get up,” he ordered tiredly. The slave immediately shifted to his knees. “What were you doing there?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. True to his prediction, he didn’t get one. The blond didn’t even twitch from his hunched position, and with the way his hair covered his face, it was impossible to see whether his expression had changed either. Harry made a note to ask Tom to get some hair ties as well. Tom. He could sort this out, Harry thought, perking up. Walking to his other slave’s door, he rapped on it sharply.

“Tom,” he called, an impatient note in his voice. There was a muffled rustling, then a muttered curse before the door was opened, Tom looking bleary-eyed and sleepy.

“Yes, master?” he said, yawning as he finished the word.

“Why did I find Draco outside my door this morning? I thought you put him to bed last night?” Tom looked at him and then looked at Draco. Then he shrugged.

“I did. I guess he moved in the night.” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Since he wasn’t there when I went to bed, I’d say that was obvious. I’d like to know _why_.” Tom groaned and Harry could have sworn he muttered something like ‘it’s too bloody early’ under his breath.

“Did you try _asking_ , master?” he asked, irritation in his voice. Well, Harry was irritated too. Irritated at almost tripping over someone lying in the doorway to his bedroom when he _should_ have been in a room of his own.

“Of course I did,” he replied, somewhat snappily. “He didn’t answer.” Tom sighed.

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t,” he admitted, the irritation leaving his tone. “Well, if I had to venture a guess, it would be that either that was his normal sleeping place, or it was as close to his normal sleeping place as possible.” He gave Harry a meaningful look. Harry felt sick again as he thought about the implication.

“You mean he was expecting to be sleeping in my bed,” he stated flatly. Tom shrugged.

“That, or on the floor near your bed, is my guess.” Harry shook his head violently. It was _too_ _early_ for this.

“Nope, not happening. He’s going to have to learn to sleep in his _own_ bedroom. I am _not_ having him in _mine_.” He finally had a space which was _his_ and only his, and he was going to _keep_ it that way. Tom looked at him thoughtfully.

“What about if he stayed in my bedroom, master?” Harry frowned.

“Not in _your_ bed, surely?” He felt suddenly wary – was this where Tom started taking advantage of Draco’s vulnerability? When the man shook his head, he felt slightly reassured.

“No, of course not!” he looked repulsed by the idea. Harry found his eyebrows rising in surprise at his tone. Tom clearly noticed. “Master, let me make it obvious – I am not attracted to Draco Malfoy in any shape or form. I wasn’t attracted to him when we were both free, and I’m not attracted to him now we’re both enslaved. My suggestion that he sleep in my bedroom is _purely_ because I don’t think any other solution is going to be feasible.” Harry found himself wondering whether that ‘any shape or form’ was because Draco was _male_ or just because he wasn’t Tom’s type… Then, realising he was wondering about Tom’s preferences, he forcibly redirected his thoughts.

“OK, so you’re suggesting we put another bed in your room, then?” Tom hesitated.

“Not at first, perhaps. Honestly, I wasn’t able to get him to sleep on the bed last night – he simply wouldn’t get on it, even when the collar shocked him. I just told him to use a soft rug on the side of the room,” he admitted. “No, I was thinking we could put a thin mattress down beside my bed and slowly work him up to actually sleeping on a real bed over time.” Harry eyed him thoughtfully.

“You’ve put some thought into this,” he remarked. Tom shrugged. Casting a _tempus_ , Harry’s eyes widened at the time. “I’m going to be late!” he exclaimed. “Tom, get yourself sorted to go shopping so I can take you out of the wards in about ten minutes – I need to grab some food.” He rushed downstairs, followed by his persistent shadow. Ah, damn, he didn’t have time to feed Draco by hand again… Halfway through breakfast, Tom appeared. Harry greeted him with a look of relief.

“Can you feed Draco something – I really don’t have time. You can buy yourself some breakfast while you’re out, if you want.” Tom bowed his head.

“Yes, master,” was all he said. Harry didn’t pay attention to what he did after that, too busy stuffing his face with some toast and peanut butter and then swigging his too-hot coffee. Dashing into the sitting room, he grabbed the money sitting on the corner of his desk and his bag with his notes and reference materials for the training sessions.

“Right, are you ready?” he asked Tom who appeared in the passageway.

“Almost, master. Draco, come.” He quickly walked into the sitting room and came out shortly after, sans blond. “He’s kneeling on the rug – he’ll be fine as long as I’m not out too long,” he explained at Harry’s questioning look.

“Fine,” Harry replied impatiently, too antsy at being close to being late. “Come on.” Almost dragging Tom by the collar, he opened the door and pulled his slave past the ward line, shoving the money into his hands. “OK, see you later. Remember – hold the disk for five seconds if you need me urgently.” At Tom’s nod, he twisted and apparated to the Ministry. As he arrived, he realised he’d forgotten to tell Tom about the hair ties…

XXX

Tom stared at the spot his master had been less than a second before. Then, a massive smile broke out over his face. He was free…kind of. This was the first time he had been out by himself in…half year? More than that. The Event had been in May and it was now January of the next year. That was…eight months… Merlin. He took a deep breath, luxuriating in being alone and outside the house. Then, starting to stroll down the road, he retraced the steps he’d taken when he’d first arrived to stay with Harry.

It felt so good…until it didn’t. Someone passing by looked strangely at him and suddenly Tom realised that while he’d remembered to bring a coat, he’d forgotten to grab a scarf, so his collar was obvious. Feeling uncomfortable, he drew the coat more tightly around himself and turned the collar of it up so it hid his neck and the magic-infused fabric band around it.

The wind was cold, nipping in past his clothes, as much as he had wrapped himself up. He’d almost forgotten it was January – the garden in the house was kept at artificial temperatures, most of the plants in it being from tropical climes. Now it was too obvious to forget. He needed to get Draco clothes, he told himself. Then he could return to the house and its warmth. When he realised he was longing to be back in the house with its fires and comfortable familiarity, he frowned, stepping with more speed.

The Oxfam shop was closed. Its door said it wouldn’t be open until 9am. Tom checked his watch: almost a quarter past eight. Sighing, he wondered whether he should go to M&S first or wait here. When someone eyed him loitering there in the doorway, he made his decision. On his walk he’d become uncomfortably aware that he was defenceless. More so even than a common muggle: not only was he forbidden from using his magic, but if he attacked someone else physically, even in self-defence, he’d be incapacitated by the pain and end up an easy target. So, better to keep moving since his best defence would be not being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Getting to M&S, he saw that he still had ten minutes before the shop opened at half past eight. Maybe Sainsbury’s then? There were a couple of items he needed to buy for the house and Harry _had_ said he could buy himself some breakfast.

That shop, at least, was open, and Tom felt a lot better after having bought the necessary items and starting to munch on a nice nutty pastry thing. He didn’t really have a sweet-tooth, but this had looked so tempting that he couldn’t resist it. It helped that the people he’d passed had either ignored him completely or, like the cashier, been friendly. Heading back to M&S, he quickly found the underwear department. After treating Draco the night before, he had a good idea of the size the man needed, so that was alright.

Eventually, after having gone through the Oxfam shop’s stock in search of clothes he thought would be a decent fit and appropriate in terms of material used, he returned home. Reaching the familiar door, he realised he felt relief. He didn’t feel safe outside anymore, not without the knowledge that his magic was superior to any threat he might meet, that even _death_ was no real obstacle. He’d been afraid of mere muggles, and the shame of that was crushing.

It would all be better once the collar was off, he promised himself. He carefully avoided the realisation he’d come to as he’d stepped in the door of the house: that the idea of running off, of just disappearing into the muggle world hadn’t even _occurred_ to him until he was already back in the wards.

XXX

Harry sat in the sitting room, trying to concentrate on his essay. Trying being the key word. Having Draco there was…disturbing, despite the fact that the man didn’t even move. He just…knelt there. He had tried kneeling beside Harry, but being even more uncomfortable with that than Draco’s general unresponsiveness, Harry had taken to telling him to kneel on the rug by the fire as soon as they entered the room. Sure, if Harry ordered him to take another position, he would, but it was like he was just a doll. Or a robot, he thought with a shiver, remembering some shows Dudley had used to watch on the TV.

Tom clearly disliked the idea of spending a lot of time near him too, since he hadn’t brought a book down to read on the rug by the fire ever since Draco had arrived. For some reason, that made Harry feel irritated at Draco, even though he knew it wasn’t the traumatised man’s fault. It was just…whenever Harry saw the blond, he was struck anew by the difference between this unresponsive doll and the fiery pain in his arse that his rival had been at Hogwarts. Perhaps once he would have said he preferred this over Malfoy trying to needle him all the time, but now he knew he really _didn’t_. Because honestly? Every time he ended up on that train of thought, he started wondering what had happened to the man to break him so thoroughly, and then that led to thoughts of the other slaves, to people like Nott. _That_ in turn led to him wondering whether he was doing everything he could to help them, accompanied by a big dose of guilt that it had been his choice to use the Ritual of Justice which had ultimately landed them in their positions.

So yeah, not a good study environment. But the thought of ordering Draco to stay in his room all the time also made Harry feel really guilty, even if the only benefit of him being in the sitting room was that he was in a different room and not alone. It was hard to find something for him to _do_. He didn’t seem capable of doing anything independently, and hadn’t shown any sort of interest in _anything_. Harry had a suspicion that Tom was using Draco during the day to help him with his chores – Harry had ordered him not to get Draco to _do_ his chores for him, but he hadn’t said anything about the man helping. Thinking about it, Harry didn’t really mind – Draco was clearly unable to follow any complex orders unsupervised, and it kept him busy during the daytime, at least.

That just left the evenings where he just stayed in one position the whole time. If Harry had been in his place, he would be going mad from boredom, let alone how Tom would feel, given his overactive brain. But what else could he do? Harry didn’t feel like following him around and giving him a whole load of orders just so he wasn’t sitting still – he had work to do. As for Tom, Harry didn’t begrudge the man having a break from his care duties after having been with Draco all day.

He had to wonder whether his previous master had ever got annoyed with his lack of…anything, or whether the uses Draco had been put to simply hadn’t _required_ him to do anything but follow direct orders. Shivering again at the path his mind went down with that thought, Harry pulled himself out of his contemplations.

Throwing his quill down, he gave up. It was Tuesday night and he only had four essays that week, two of which were already done – he could afford to have an evening off. He stood up, heading toward the door, muttering a ‘stay’ at Draco when he started moving as if to follow Harry.

XXX

Tom jerked his head up as his master entered the room. He suddenly felt a compulsive need to hide his books, hide his research. What was the man _doing_ here? He never came up to the library except occasionally just after dinner to fetch his research materials for whatever assignment he was doing.

“Master?” Tom said, walking over and kneeling a few steps away from where Harry had paused by a shelf of books. If he was honest, it was less of the collar demanding he be ‘respectful’ to his master - or even Tom’s recent resolution to behave well until he got free - and more to do with making sure Harry didn’t come any closer to his desk. Not that Harry would likely be able to tell anything from the arithmantic calculations strewn all over its surface, but he _did_ possess the power to ask very awkward questions that Tom would be forced to answer. Thus, his technique: distract.

“Oh get up, for Merlin’s sake,” muttered Harry in irritation, gesturing impatiently. “I’ve just left one slave who kneels all the time – I don’t need another one here. Just, go back to whatever you were doing and pretend I’m not here.” Tom stood up slowly, his mind working busily.

“Draco’s annoying you?” he asked. Harry didn’t answer at first, perusing one of the bookshelves for a few moments until he grabbed a book and threw himself to lounge on the couch, his violent gesture provoking a small puff of dust to rise into the air.

“Not exactly,” Harry admitted. “I don’t think he _can_ try to annoy someone, not in his condition anyway.”

“But you’re still annoyed at his presence?” Tom pressed, moving to lean against the front of his desk, crossing his arms loosely across his chest. Harry flicked through the book restlessly before snapping it shut and dropping it on his chest, his arms rising to cradle his head. Tom couldn’t help but notice the lines of his neck, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed, the pulse beating in the base of it. Flicking his eyes away, a chill of horror running through them at the thought of possible consequences if Harry had seen his appreciative look, Tom scrambled to marshal his thoughts. The man sighed heavily.

“ _Yes_ , and it makes me feel awful to admit it,” he said grumpily. Tom looked back at him, frowning.

“Why does it make you feel awful?” he asked, genuinely surprised. Why should Harry feel bad about something other people had chosen? There was a long pause.

“Because I performed the Ritual of Justice which put him there,” Harry replied finally, his tone subdued, sad. Tom’s heart rose into his mouth as he heard it. Oh. Yes, of course – from what Tom had observed so far of this man, he was all too likely to find any opportunity to blame himself for whatever he could – hadn’t he seen that with the revelation of the Diagon Alley attacker’s motivation for casting the spell? Pushing away from the desk, Tom approached Harry once more, sliding to his knees near where the man’s head was propped against the couch arm.

“Master…” he started, then paused, not knowing how to continue. Those green eyes looked into his from barely a foot away, Harry’s scent filling his nostrils along with the leather of the couch. It was…hard to describe. Woody, perhaps, a hint of ozone from magic, a slight tang of sweat. Tom felt a sudden urge to bury his nose in it, but he resisted, reminding himself once more of the consequences of showing any interest. “Yes, you chose the Ritual of Justice, but imagine what would have happened had you not.” Harry stared at him flatly.

“Draco wouldn’t be a slave,” he pointed out. Tom inclined his head, but continued his thoughts.

“No, he wouldn’t, but let’s consider the alternatives. Had you won in some other way, he would probably have been put on trial, no doubt being sentenced to Azkaban for longer than his sentence of slavery.” Harry gave him a pointed look.

“First of all, without the dementors in place, I think that a prison sentence, even for longer, would be far preferable to _that_ ,” he said, waving his hand vaguely towards the door. Tom quickly checked to make sure the blond hadn’t suddenly appeared there. He hadn’t, and Tom breathed out a silent sigh of relief. Harry continued speaking in the meantime. “Second of all, why do you seem so convinced I’d have won? You had _decades_ of experience on me, control of the Ministry, control of Hogwarts… I was always the underdog.” Tom gave him a quirked smile.

“It’s because of that fact that gives me doubt in my own ability to win.” Harry stared at him as if he’d gone mad. Tom sighed, relaxing into a half-sitting position against the couch. He propped his head up with one arm on the couch seat, his elbow barely a centimetre away from Harry’s side. “Look, you’re right – I had all the advantages. I had all the advantages before _Halloween_ happened – I was on the brink of taking over; no one could stop me. Then, in my hubris, I believed I could defy Fate and I was disembodied for thirteen years as a consequence. Who’s not to say it wouldn’t have happened again?” He looked away for a moment, thinking, and then flicked his eyes back to Harry’s, a glint of amusement in them. “We were prophesised as _equals_ were we not? Perhaps if my advantage was in magical experience, political power and decades of life, _your_ advantage was in sheer, dumb luck.” Harry stared at him, and for a moment, Tom worried that perhaps his master would take offence. Then, he broke out into laughter, turning his eyes away from Tom’s to stare at the ceiling as rolls of chuckles rocked his lithe frame.

The laughter finally dying out, Harry twisted his body slightly so he was more on his side than his back, pillowing his head on his arm and tucking his other arm over the back of the couch. He licked his lips, that pink tongue flashing out briefly and Tom couldn’t prevent himself from watching its glide and the gleaming lips it left behind. A brief image of what might happen if he just leant forwards…No. He shoved the thought away forcibly, imagined it being locked behind a door. No – this was the worst time to think of such things. Merlin, since he had allowed himself some liberty those nights ago, it had been harder and harder – pun decidedly _not_ intended – to keep his mind away from those forbidden areas. He forced himself to imagine his master ordering him to his bed, ordering him to strip, inspecting him impersonally like a toy…there. He had himself under control, his imaginings acting as a bucket of ice-cold water on the fire of his ardour. Tom met his master’s gaze again; fortunately, it seemed like he hadn’t noticed Tom’s brief struggle with himself.

“I never thought about it that way, but yeah. My friends and I joked around about it – called it Potter’s luck. The bad luck of getting into horrible situations, but the good luck of escaping them mostly unscathed,” he replied, his tone still amused, but with a hint of wistfulness about it. “Who knows – you might be right. Maybe I would have defeated you, somehow. Maybe if I’d tried Dumbledore’s crazy scheme it would have worked. Maybe I’d have found another way.” His smile faded. “But if I hadn’t chosen _this_ way, Draco would have been better off.” Tom sighed. So much for trying to cheer him up.

“Perhaps, but what about everyone else? You know that unless all of my Death Eaters were killed in the battle or neutralised in some way, a good number of them would have continued causing trouble even after my death.” A part of Tom wondered at the fact that he had got to the point where he was so easily able to discuss something which had terrified him for the vast majority of his life. Perhaps it was because, in Draco, he’d seen something which terrified him even further – had Harry been like Draco’s previous master, Tom didn’t know whether he would have used the technique Draco probably had, or whether he would have just…ended his life. Or maybe it was just because it was _Harry_. He pulled himself back into the present, continuing his previous thought. “So while this is not the best scenario for Draco, it may end up being better in the long run.” Harry sighed and looked back up at the ceiling.

“That sort of thinking is so treacherous, though. Isn’t it what got _Dumbledore_ started on his whole messing about with my life? The idea that it wasn’t so bad as long as it was only _me_ who had to suffer, to die. That the ‘greater good’ outweighed the damage to one life? I mean, I haven’t tried asking his portrait these questions, but with what I’ve learnt about him since his death…these are the only conclusions I can come to,” he said, his voice sad and full of pain. Tom’s heart hurt. That was the only way he could describe it. But he didn’t know what he could do or say to alleviate either of their sensations of pain.

Then Harry turned back onto his side, his green eyes meeting Tom’s, his feelings of warmth and pain clear in those crystalline depths. He placed a hand on Tom’s upper arm, its weight warm and solid.

“Thanks for trying, Tom. I appreciate you trying to cheer me up.” Tom just looked away and shrugged slightly with one shoulder – the shoulder which wouldn’t disrupt Harry’s hand.

“Clearly it didn’t work,” he grumbled, though his heart wasn’t in it. When he looked back at Harry, he saw a small smile on his face.

“I don’t think anything could, not entirely. But it has helped. I know I have some blame for what’s happening to people who really don’t deserve everything they’re getting. Both because I was the one to initiate the whole thing and because I haven’t paid any attention to it until now, with my nose getting rubbed in the consequences of my actions. But I’ve also been able to sort a few things out in my mind, so thanks.” Tom shrugged again. He was feeling a bit bewildered by Harry’s sudden change of tack, but if he was feeling better…

“You’re welcome, master,” he said finally. Harry gave him another smile, patted him on the upper arm and then withdrew his hand. Tom immediately missed the contact, through his clothes as it was, and just as quickly told himself off for it. He should be _happy_ Harry wasn’t touching him, he thought determinably.

“You go and do your thing,” Harry said, rolling back and picking up his book again. “I’m just going to relax here for a while.”

“Are you finished your work?” Tom asked, raising an eyebrow. Harry grimaced.

“I need a night off. I’ve been going flat out for too long and it’s starting to get to me,” he said, ruefully. “I have enough time to do the assignments later.” Tom thought about arguing, but decided not to in the end – Harry was perfectly able to manage his own workload without Tom chasing him about it. And frankly, after the discussion they’d had, he didn’t feel like risking any aggravation. In the end, he just nodded and stood up. Hesitating before he sat down, he looked back at his master.

“Master,” he asked tentatively. Harry made humming noise. “May I sit at my…at the desk?” Harry looked over at him with a confused look. Seeing him hovering next to the desk, he immediately waved at him.

“Of course, sit. Pretend I’m not here.” Settling back into the desk chair, Tom mused that the last instruction definitely wouldn’t be able to be fulfilled – how could he forget that Harry was in the room when every few minutes he found his eyes wandering over to the figure relaxing on the couch in the centre of the room. And it wasn’t fear or apprehension that drew his gaze, either.

XXX

“What do you mean, you can’t come?” Ron asked, his tone incredulous. Harry grimaced.

“I…I’ve got someone at home I don’t want to leave for that long.” Ron frowned.

“Tom? But you’ve left him there by himself for a long longer before without a problem, haven’t you?” Harry shook his head.

“It’s not Tom,” he explained. Ron’s frown just deepened.

“Then who is it?” Harry hesitated, looking around at where they were standing: near the gates to Hogwarts. It felt…wrong to discuss this here.

“It’s Draco Malfoy,” he said reluctantly. Ron’s jaw dropped.

“ _Malfoy_?” he half-shouted in disbelief. Harry shushed him, glancing around once more to see if anyone was paying attention.

“Look, mate, why don’t you come around after dinner tonight? I’ll explain the situation there.” Ron gave him a hard look.

“OK, we’ll come, but you’d better have a good explanation for this or Hermione’ll skin you.” Harry grimaced again at the thought. Yeah…he’d better explain fast – if she saw the condition he was in before he was able to explain he’d be toast. Maybe literally if she decided to transfigure him…

Nodding, he apparated away. Arriving at home, he entered the sitting room to find it empty. Sighing, he dropped his essay assignments on his desk and then went to the kitchen. Entering, he found Tom at the stove, stirring something. Draco was with him, cutting up some carrots. Neither of them had seen him yet so he just leant against the door frame and watched them. The differences between them, even without being able to see either of their faces, were apparent. Tom’s moves were efficient and graceful, a study in motion. Draco’s were choppy, almost careless – the knife barely avoiding his fingers on more than one occasion. Tom looked over to him and swore.

“Merlin, I didn’t tell you to mince them!” he exclaimed, raising a hand to his forehead and sighing in exasperation. Then, taking a few deep breaths, he looked at the slave who had paused in his work, turning his bowed head in Tom’s general direction. “Just…bring them here. I’ll add them to the potatoes since they’re too small to eat on their own.” Harry was impressed by how level his voice was, considering that this evidently wasn’t the first situation where something of this nature had occurred. Patience wasn’t something Voldemort had been especially known for, though Tom had shown more ability in that area than his dark lord alter-ego. Still, Harry was impressed.

Slipping into the room, he sat in his chair, the slight scrape of the chairs legs announcing his presence.

“Master,” Tom greeted him, the faintest hint of relief in his voice. And this was why he didn’t want to go to the Weasleys that Sunday – Tom was dealing with Draco’s care all day, every day except for a short time in the evenings, and Harry could see it was wearing on him. Merlin, since Draco was sleeping in the same room, Tom didn’t really get a break even at night. At least if Harry looked after the blond at the weekends, it gave Tom a bit of a break. Since he was occupied with the dinner, Tom didn’t kneel – Harry had made it a standing rule that it wasn’t necessary to do so long ago. It had been as a result of an almost-accident: Tom had been shocked while in a rather precarious position cleaning, just because Harry had entered and he hadn’t got down fast enough. Draco, however, dropped to his knees in his usual ‘strings cut’ fashion, seemingly disregarding the knife he was still holding.

“Merlin, Draco!” Harry yelped, jumping forwards out of his seat to grab the knife that had almost sliced across his slave’s leg. Checking to see there was no blood on either Draco or the blade, he breathed. Looking up at Tom, he continued. “Is it safe to allow him to use knives if _that’s_ what he’s going to do?” Tom shrugged, but Harry could read the irritation in it.

“He’s not safe with _anything_ ,” he grumbled. “Needs supervision every second of doing something. Stirring the pot would have been more dangerous.” Looking at the pot on the side and the flames underneath it, Harry couldn’t disagree. He looked up at Tom again. The man looked…tired. And irritated. Harry sighed – short of taking Draco with him, which would probably be worse all around, or handing him back to the Ministry, which he was loathe to do, there wasn’t much he could do.

“Come here, Draco,” Harry ordered, moving to sit back in his seat. Draco obeyed and knelt in his usual place for dinner. Harry then summoned the newspaper, deciding to read the news of the day while he waited for the meal to be ready.

Twenty minutes later, they were tucking in. Harry was feeding himself with one hand and Draco with the other, having started to develop a rhythm after doing it for almost two weeks.

“Master…” Tom started hesitantly. Harry made a noise to indicate that he was listening. “He’s not getting any better.” Harry paused and sighed.

“No, he’s not,” he admitted. It was true. Physically, Draco had definitely improved – his skin was clear of injuries and he was starting to fill out slightly from his previously emaciated appearance. Mentally, though…there was no sign of even the smallest change. Harry knew that trauma took time to heal, if it ever did, but in two weeks, surely there should have been some changes?

“Have you thought about allowing me to use Legilimency?” Harry was silent. Honestly, he had thought about it. Multiple times, in fact. Each time, he hadn’t been able to come to an answer. It could help, or at least tell them what the true trouble was, that was true. It could also be an absolutely awful idea. The thought of Tom traipsing through Draco’s mind while he was defenceless…Harry shuddered to think about it.

“I have,” he replied finally with a neutral tone. Tom didn’t say anything, just looked at him. When Harry refused to elaborate, he looked back at his food and the silence hung thickly between them.

XXX

They were just finishing eating when Harry heard the floo go. Tom looked at him questioningly, an eyebrow lifted.

“Ron and Hermione,” Harry told him in answer, his tone distracted. “Just sit down,” he shouted, twisting to face the door. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Sure thing, mate,” Ron’s voice shouted back. Harry quickly shovelled the last couple of bits on the plate into his mouth, then did the same with Draco. Standing up, he started walking towards the door.

“Can you bring Draco through in a few minutes, please,” he asked Tom over his shoulder. “Maybe once you’ve finished cleaning up the meal.”

“Yes, master,” came the acknowledgement, his tone unreadable. Putting his slave and his slave’s issues out of his mind, Harry went to see his friends.

Entering the sitting-room was like going back to staying here when they’d first started hunting for the horcruxes. Hermione and Ron were cuddled together on the couch that faced the armchair Harry tended to use if he wasn’t sitting at his desk.

“Hermione, Ron,” he greeted warmly, a smile on his face. They returned his greetings with the same warmth, though Hermione had a crease between her brows.

“What’s this I hear about you having _another_ slave, Harry?” she asked immediately. “And it being _Malfoy_ at that. Please don’t tell me you got him because of your crush on him at school?” Harry choked.

“Crush?! I never had a crush on _Malfoy_!” She gave him a look that seemed to say ‘oh, please’.

“Harry, you’ve looked at him for years. Heck, in Sixth year you _stalked_ him almost as obsessively as you did Ginny.”

“That wasn’t a crush!” Harry spluttered. “I _hated_ him and suspected him of being a Death Eater. A suspicion, I might add, which was proved _right_.” She just gave him another _look_. Harry glanced over at Ron for support, but his best mate just pretended not to see him looking, whistling innocently under his breath. “Anyway,” Harry said, deciding that the best thing to do was to change the topic, “would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks,” Hermione declined.

“Do you still have any of that firewhisky we had while staying here?” Ron asked, despite his girlfriend side-eyeing him. Harry smirked at him.

“Sure do, but are you sure Hermione will let you?” he asked, getting a bit of petty revenge for Ron’s lack of support earlier. Ron looked sideways at her disapproving look and then deflated.

“Come on, Hermione,” he wheedled. “One glass isn’t going to do anything.” Harry’s smirked widened as his assertion being proven. Hermione eventually sighed.

“Fine. One glass,” she emphasised. Ron brightened and Harry got up to pour it. “Harry,” Hermione said, disapproval obvious in her voice. “I remember that bottle being a _lot_ fuller last time I saw it.” Harry rolled his eyes, letting her see it.

“That was a long time ago, Hermione.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, but you haven’t been living here for most of it. How often do you drink?”

“Every so often,” he answered, his good-humour dropping a bit. “Look, Hermione, I’m not becoming an alcoholic, I promise. I have a drink when I feel like it, but I certainly don’t feel any _need_ to do so.” He stared at her until she looked away, sniffing slightly, but clearly conceding the point to him. Honestly, becoming dependent on alcohol was the _last_ thing Harry wanted. Uncle Vernon hadn’t been a drunkard, exactly, though his sister certainly had been. However, when he had drunk a bit too much on an infrequent occasion, it had always been the worst time for Harry. So no, he was always careful not to get much more than tipsy, and certainly not so drunk he was incapable of controlling his actions – even if he hadn’t had Tom (and Draco) living with him, he wouldn’t have drunk to excess; with them there, he didn’t want to take the risk of him doing something…unwise.

Passing the drink to Ron, he settled into his armchair with his own tumbler.

“So, what’s all this about Malfoy, then?” This time it was Ron who asked the question. Seeing movement beyond them in the doorway, Harry hurriedly prepared them for what they were about to see.

“Guys, just remember, I did not cause this, OK?” They both frowned at him in confusion, which cleared slightly when the two slaves entered. Draco came immediately to kneel at Harry’s feet, his behaviour making Ron’s jaw drop again. Harry, however, was watching Tom who had knelt just inside the doorway.

“Do you wish me to stay, master?” his tone of voice told Harry that the prospect deeply displeased Tom. Harry was hit with a sudden, contrary impulse to tell him to stay, just because it would annoy him. He didn’t act on it, though – Tom had done nothing intentionally to annoy him recently, so it seemed a bit unfair to turn around and make him do something he didn’t want to do just because he didn’t want to do it.

“No, it’s fine. Go and do whatever. I’ll call you if I want you to do something,” he said, waving a nonchalant hand. Tom quickly stood, bowed his head.

“Thank you, master,” he said before quickly disappearing – probably up to the library. Harry looked at his friends to see them both gazing at him thoughtfully, though Ron more than Hermione.

“He’s changed a bit, mate,” Ron commented. Harry remembered that the last time Ron had seen Tom and Harry together had been right at the start of it all. He shrugged.

“We’ve found some sort of equilibrium, I guess,” he agreed.

“Yeah…I guess he was right.” Harry frowned at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I came around a while ago, when you weren’t here, remember?” Harry nodded: he remembered. “He was a bit mouthy, though more helpful than I would have imagined Voldemort to be, but he said something about you not having to ‘deal’ with him because you were his master.”

“He acknowledged I was his master?” Harry asked in surprise. He wasn’t quite sure _why_ he was surprised: Tom had been acknowledging him as his master for months now. Perhaps it was because he said it while Harry wasn’t around… Ron shrugged.

“All that aside,” Hermione broke in impatiently. “I want to know _why_ exactly you went and bought another slave, Harry. And why he looks _awful_. You say it’s not your fault – and knowing you, I can believe that – but then whose fault is it?” Harry launched into the explanation – how Kingsley had given Draco to him; how his previous master had abused him. At one point, Hermione moved forwards out of her chair and tried to peer through Draco’s silvery hair. Harry reached down and gently guided his chin upwards. She sent him a dark look, but then gasped as she took in his lifeless look. Even Ron seemed a bit discomforted.

“So you see, Tom wants to use Legilimency to see if there’s a way of helping Draco. Apparently there are techniques which Draco might have used which could cause this kind of state.” Hermione looked uneasy and Ron was downright pale at the thought.

“But, mate, we’re talking about _Voldemort_ here. I mean, I know that neither of us liked Draco in school, but I’m not sure I’d condemn him to having Voldemort traipsing through his mind.”

“Tom isn’t Voldemort,” Harry said, feeling a bit irritated at how Ron kept calling him that. “Voldemort wouldn’t be patient with Draco when he doesn’t understand a simple instruction. Voldemort wouldn’t acknowledge me as his master without being forced. Voldemort wouldn’t have _leapt in front of a_ curse for me.” Aware he was almost shouting, he forcibly calmed himself down. “I know he _was_ Voldemort,” he started, his tone firm, “but he isn’t anymore.” Ron eyed him as if worried he was going to go down the route of anger like in his Fifth and Sixth years; without all the horcruxes or raging hormones, Harry was much more able to control his emotions.

“I know that, mate,” Ron said eventually, his tone placating. “But face it – Tom Riddle wasn’t much better! Isn’t he the guy that wanted to sacrifice my sister in Chamber of Secrets? After possessing her on several occasions throughout the school year?” Grudgingly, Harry had to admit he had a point.

“I suppose. Kind of. But that was a horcrux, and his sixteen year old self – he’s now older and wiser.” Harry thought he was, anyway. There was still the chance this was all a sham and as soon as either he got free or realised he couldn’t get free it would all change. He wasn’t going to reveal his lack of conviction to his already uneasy friends, though.

“I suppose, Harry,” started Hermione thoughtfully, “the question is less about whether he’s changed, and more about whether there are any other options. Could you get someone else to use Legilimency on Malfoy?” Harry thought about it – oddly enough, the suggestion hadn’t actually occurred to him.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “I suppose Snape could do it, but we’re not on…good terms. And I’d rather not have to come into any more contact with him than possible. Otherwise, I don’t think there are many Mind Arts experts around.”

“Certainly not in Britain,” agreed Hermione. “It’s a much less known skill than in some other countries, and both the teaching and the practice of Legilimency are highly regulated. What happens if you don’t use Legilimency on him?” Harry shrugged.

“I don’t know, honestly. I suppose that he either finds a way past his conditioning, or he doesn’t, but we’ve got less than four months before he’s going to be released...it’s not much time for traditional therapy, and I’m not a therapist to begin with!” There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the cracking of the fire.

“I suppose you have your answer, then,” murmured Hermione quietly. Harry nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

XXX

“Well, it’s not good, master,” remarked Tom, withdrawing from Draco’s mind and looking up at Harry.

“What did you find?” asked Harry, fearing the worst. After the discussion with Ron and Hermione, Harry had concluded that Draco’s only real chance to get better lay in finding out for certain what was wrong with him to begin with. As a result, he had given into Tom’s suggestion that they use Legilimency to find out if his suspicions about the cause of the problems were true. After laying down a few basic rules, of course.

“As I suspected, his outer mind is completely shattered, and his inner mind is trapped, thanks to his overuse of occlumency, no doubt.” Harry frowned.

“Can you explain that again in simple terms for those of us who aren’t Mind Arts masters like you,” he asked, partially sharply, partially with amusement.

“Very well, master. What do you know about Occlumency? You have some sort of barriers, I believe?” Harry didn’t ask how he knew that, probably not wanting to know the answer.

“Snape taught me,” he said simply. Tom winced, perhaps in sympathy, perhaps just at the name of the man he hated.

“That was no doubt a painful experience for both of you, but surely he explained the basics?” Harry shrugged.

“Not really. He just shouted ‘clear your mind, Potter’ at me and then dived in with a painful legilimency probe. It was like that every week. I always had a hell of a headache afterwards, and it didn’t really seem to help much.” Tom hummed in thought.

“It is actually a valid teaching technique, master,” Tom informed him “though not one usually used because of its limited benefits and painful teaching method. Its only real advantage over other forms of Occlumency training is that it’s quick. Normal Occlumency training usually takes at least two years to build a rudimentary barrier; the method _Severus_ used can create a passable barrier in a few months.”

“Why is that?” Harry asked, interested despite still being surprised that Snape had actually _tried_ to teach him: he had been under the impression for years that the man had been just using the time to torture him with Dumbledore’s permission. He thought that the barrier he had around his thoughts came more from the advice Hermione had given them during their time on the run.

“Think about it. Your magic reacts to things that make you feel negatively, right?”

“Sure,” Harry agreed. “Most accidental magic comes from a child feeling angry, under stress or really wanting something.” Tom nodded.

“Exactly, master, and in fact, you’re not that far off with your comparison. The Probe Method, as it’s called colloquially, essentially uses stress and pain to provoke your magic into forming a barrier in self-defence. Semi-controlled accidental magic, in a way. As I previously stated, its only advantage is in its speed – the barrier is held unconsciously and therefore cannot be controlled by the user, nor does it lend any advantage to memory maintenance and recall.

“A meditation-based Occlumency method requires months or years of practising meditation before even _beginning_ to touch on anything magical. With those methods, the student is required to be able to hold a meditative state for about half an hour, despite a reasonable number of distractions. Then, and only then, do they engage magic to start organising their minds, building defences and even setting traps for unwary attackers. The advantages of these methods far outweigh the disadvantage of their slow nature, however – with a reasonable skill in Occlumency, the student is more able to record and store information, accessing it at a much faster pace because it is organised. They are also able to have more control of their emotions, although overuse of this is dangerous.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” Harry asked, suddenly realising, with the feeling of his stomach dropping through his gut, that maybe everything he had been seeing from Tom had just been a façade. Tom paused for a moment before nodding slowly.

“To an extent, yes, master.” He hesitated, then continued, his tone completely sincere. “But a lot more in the beginning than now.” Harry wasn’t sure what to think about that, and Tom didn’t explain, but it somehow made him feel a bit better. Tom didn’t give him the opportunity to ask about it, however, as he quickly carried on. “As I said, overuse of Occlumency for emotional control is dangerous – the emotions do not vanish; they are simply pushed to one side for a time. If they are not allowed out at some point, they can cause many problems. One common result is the complete destruction of one’s Occlumency shields, and the requirement to build them up from scratch once more. Another common consequence is what we can see here.” He gestured towards Draco who was still kneeling on the floor, his head once more bowed.

“Which is…?” Harry prompted.

“I’m getting there, master,” Tom replied, a note of irritation in his voice. Harry raised his eyebrows at him and his slave looked away, clearing his throat. “Anyway, as I was saying, Draco evidently ignored whatever teaching his Occlumency tutor gave him, and bottled up his emotions for too long. As a result, he has lost control of his shields, and they are now trapping his inner mind behind a very strong barrier, one that he cannot release.” Harry’s eyes widened.

“So what we’re seeing here is not actually Draco Malfoy?” Tom shrugged.

“In a way. Rather, I would say that he intentionally created a persona he would bring forwards in times of stress which could deal with the demands being placed on him. Only, he didn’t allow himself to feel the emotions which were hidden by the persona, and is now unable to assert control over it. Whether his inner mind is conscious behind the barrier and recognises its lack of control of his body, or it’s dormant, I can’t tell. Frankly, I hope for his sake that it’s the latter.”

“Why?” asked Harry, because while the thought of feeling like a passenger in his own body terrified him – he had, after all, felt exactly like that when Voldemort had possessed him in the Ministry – what had happened to Ginny seemed worse, where she had woken from her trance with no idea of what she had done, only knowing that her hands were covered in blood.

“Because, master,” and here Tom gave him a grim smile, “If he’s conscious, his emotions of fear, horror and helplessness are probably only reinforcing the barrier. He has more chance of recovering if his inner mind is dormant.”

“So he could recover?” checked Harry. Tom shrugged again.

“It’s possible. Given time in a less stressful environment, perhaps. He would have more chance with treatment, but even then it’s not certain, master. The kind of damage losing control of Occlumency shields does to a mind usually leaves scars, even if it _can_ be healed. It’s one reason why Occlumency tutors are heavily regulated – bad teaching can destroy a person from the inside.” Sure, regulated, Harry thought. But no doubt, Snape wasn’t actually qualified – he was just the only man Dumbledore knew who would follow his orders in subjecting Harry to the painful ‘Probe Method’ without question.

“What kind of treatment?”

“Regular legilimency probes to help chip away at the barrier, calming potions, good nutrition, that sort of thing.”

“Could you do it?” was the logical next question – Harry certainly couldn’t, but Voldemort’s expertise with legilimency was well-known. Harry watched Tom’s response carefully. He hesitated.

“I _could_ …” was all he said.

“Then I suppose I should ask _would_ you do it.” There was a longer pause this time.

“You could order me,” Tom said neutrally. Harry shook his head.

“I’m not going to do that. If you’re going to do it, it has to be of your own free will – otherwise, who knows what could happen to both Draco or _you_.” Tom looked at him quizzically.

“You’re worried about _me_?” Harry shrugged.

“What little of the Mind Arts I understand tells me that they can be very dangerous when approached incorrectly. If you’re forced into it, I suspect that the treatment will be at best futile, and at worst, have an impact on either of you. And no, I don’t want you being injured while offering help.” Tom stared at him for a few moments.

“Then, because you _didn’t_ force me, even though you could have, yes. I’ll do what I can. I don’t promise any results,” he warned. “Any treatment of this nature is uncertain at best, but I can promise that I’ll _try_.” Harry smiled at him.

“That’s all I ask. Thank you.” There was a beat of silence.

“You’re welcome, master,” replied Tom finally, a strange note in his voice. 

XXX

Harry was relaxing in the sitting room when the owl came. It was from Kingsley.

_Harry,_

_The reporter would like to visit tomorrow evening at 8pm to see Draco, if that’s OK with you. If you’re amenable, she’d also like to do an interview with you about your experiences of slavery so far, both with Tom and with Draco. The aim would be to get the article into the Saturday edition of the Prophet as this seems the most likely to have the effect we would like._

_Please send a response by return owl._

_Best,_

_Kingsley_

Harry sighed. He supposed he couldn’t say ‘no’, not when this was something he’d wanted from the start. After his experiences with Draco, he wanted it even more, though he feared that by the time anything actually happened, those who most deserved its benefits would have already been freed. Some would probably be like Draco – completely broken. Hmm. Maybe he could use this article to suggest some sort of post-slavery recovery programme?

Writing a quick note of acceptance, he attached it to the owl’s leg. Then, deciding that he ought to go and tell Tom about it, he went to the library. Apparently Tom thought the Legilimency treatment might work better there – Draco didn’t have any bad memories of libraries, from what Tom could tell.

Inside, he found his two slaves kneeling on cushions on the floor. They were staring deeply into each other’s eyes, well, Tom was, at least. Draco seemed as lifeless as usual, his eyes only looking forwards because that was how his head was tilted. Not wanting to disturb them, Harry quietly took a seat on the only couch in the room.

It was still disturbing, frankly, seeing this porcelain doll where his fire-filled rival had used to be, even though it had been a while since he’d joined them. They hadn’t cut his hair, not knowing whether he’d prefer that or not, and not able to ask his opinion, but it was tied up now, Tom having bought some hair ties of his own initiative on one of his trips out to get groceries. In some ways, that made it worse. At least when his hair was covering his face, Harry was almost able to pretend that he actually had some expression; without it, the sheer blankness was clear to see.

Harry knew it would take a while for Tom to have any perceptible results; he was prepared for the possibility that there would be no obvious results at all. But still, for Draco’s sake if nothing else, he’d like the man to get better as soon as possible. And frankly, it would be better for all of them for that to happen. Having Draco around, almost like a baby in his incapacity to do some of the simplest things for himself, was creating friction between them. Tom was more snappish again, and Harry was feeling stressed. They were both trying, Harry didn’t deny that. Tom was _trying_ not to snap and Harry was _trying_ not to lose his temper…but it didn’t always work.

Just having Draco there in the room changed the dynamic between them – it wasn’t as comfortable as when it had just been the two of them. Tom was less comfortable showing vulnerability with Draco around and almost seemed…jealous of the time Harry had to spend on him. But when Harry offered to send Draco to his room for a while, he acted almost protective of the blond, telling Harry that it wouldn’t do the man’s progress any good to be relegated to a corner. Well, maybe not, but it wasn’t doing _either_ of them any good to be irritated with each other because he was there. Making a resolution, Harry decided that they would have an evening without the blond after he’d spoken to Tom. And as for the future…they’d be able to find _something_ Draco could do which wouldn’t require him to be there, surely.

XXX

Tom swam through memories. Legilimency was not _reading the mind_ as the uneducated might call it. It was more like…swimming in the mind. The closer to the surface, the more conscious the thought. The deeper in, the more unconscious. In the past, he’d gone deep into people’s minds, like with Bertha Jorkins, but he’d never accessed anyone’s true unconscious mind, the part that dealt with heartbeat or breathing. There was a reason for that – like with water, the deeper you went, the more difficult it was to find one’s way back to the surface.

Another danger with Legilimency was that of being dragged into memories. It was inevitable in a disorganised mind, or one where memories were set up as traps for the unwary trespasser. In Draco’s case, Tom suspected it was more the former than the latter – he was sure that the memories on the outside were the more recent ones which he’d been unable to process due to being stuck behind his own shields.

Tom grimaced as he was pulled into another one.

_A hand struck him across the face and then fisted in his hair._

_“You stupid slave – you can’t even follow a fucking order?! Clean this up!” He was shoved to his knees, his hands reaching out trembling with pain to clean up the broken plate, disregarding the new slices of pain that the sharp shards created. It didn’t matter – Master had told him to clear it up. A boot landed itself in his side, driving the breath and a sharp whimper of pain out of him. “Useless.” The man snorted and stepped past. On his way, he hesitated, raising his wand and-_

Tom wrenched himself out. Ugh. And he _still_ hadn’t reached the shields. Swimming deeper, he tried to avoid as many silvery clouds as possible, but one eventually wrapped around his foot.

_Pain. It was all he could feel. Pain in his gut as he was ripped apart. Pain in his shoulders as he dangled in chains. Pain in his back as his lacerated flesh was rubbed against the rough wall. Pain in his nipples as the biting clamps tugged with every bounce. Pain in his throat as Master bit deep enough to break the flesh. Pain in his balls as Master’s hand-_

Out again. There. There was the barrier. Tom, or at least, his perception of himself within this world of theirs, breathed a sigh of relief. Reaching the smoky grey wall which was made of memories mortared in with emotions, he put his ‘hand’ on it. Emotions shivered into him – fear, helplessness, anger, humiliation, grief…Tom breathed through them. They were not his – they would not affect him. Summoning up his own positive feelings, he thought of the excitement when casting spells. He thought of the warmth of Harry’s smile. He thought of the peace he had felt when kneeling at his master’s side, the relaxation as Harry stroked his hair. He thought of the weight being lifted off his shoulders as he apologised to his master and gained his forgiveness. He thought of the hope of being free.

He thought of all these things and he directed the emotions into the barrier. Bit by bit, it was being chipped away. Bit by bit, the smoke was clearing. After just over two weeks of treatment, Tom was starting to get through the first layer. There would be another after this, he knew, but hopefully not a third. But the barrier did fight back. Slamming into him with the force of a truck came another memory, and the ones used by the barrier were in some ways worse than the abuse he had to swim through to get to it.

_He stared at his father, sprawling on the floor, his limbs still twitching after being under the Cruciatus Curse for so long he had been worried he would be mad when he woke up._

_“Please, Master…forgive me,” his father’s voice croaked, his face hidden by his silvery-blond hair._

_“Forgive?” that snake-like hiss made him shiver. “Forgive you when you_ failed _? No….Lord Voldemort does not forgive_ failures _.” The anger in his voice made him step forwards._

_“My lord,” he said, shaking even while he bowed. He dared not raise his head, even while the magic that danced around his lord made him gasp. “My lord, please, let me make up for my father’s failure.” For a moment, he felt like the magic coiling around him like a snake would strike him down for his temerity in speaking, but then it relaxed._

_“What a…novel idea. The father’s sins shall be visited upon the son. How…fitting.” The Dark Lord sounded pleased, and something inside him leapt in satisfaction. “Yes, Draco, I shall give you a task. Should you succeed, your father’s failings will be forgiven. Should you fail….”_

_“I won’t fail,” he assured his lord, excitement rising in him. His first task!_

_“We shall see…Come, receive your mark.” He approached his lord, barely able to contain his emotions. Finally! After waiting so long, he would join his lord’s ranks of freedom fighters and start earning his glory! “Morsmordre.” Fire burnt up his arm and he opened his mouth to scream-_

Tom fought the memory off with his own. Lord Voldemort, collared and forced to kneel. Forced to call his prophesised defeater ‘master’. The barrier’s tendrils retreated and Tom pressed his advantage. There! The second barrier. Instead of smoky tendrils, this looked more like a shield of dark glass or obsidian. Tom pressed his ‘hand’ to this one. The feelings were stronger, but they had the tinge that Tom was looking for – something about them that said they were fresh, that they were produced by the trapped mind inside rather than being memories left over from previous defences.

Once more, he summoned the same emotions he had used to fight the tendrils, but this time he ‘formed’ them into an axe. Swinging it at the barrier, he started hitting it. With each swing, he became more and more tired – it was exhausting this kind of work, channelling emotion while avoiding the tendrils that attempted to snare him. But he was determined to make _some_ evident progress tonight, no matter what.

When he finally created a crack, he released his ‘axe’, sighing in relief. He didn’t notice the silvery tendril that seeped from out of the crack until it wrapped around him.

 _“Crucio!” the snake-like voice hissed. Then, pain. Pain was all he knew. White-hot knives stabbing into him, burning and piercing. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t_ breathe _; all he could do was…endure. For as long as he could._

_And then the pain lifted and he could breathe again, deep sobbing breaths that hurt almost as much as the knives had._

_“You’re as much of a failure as your father, boy! If the old fool had still been alive, you would be dead where you crawl like the miserable worm you are. You have Severus to thank for your wretched life.”_

Tom pulled out of the memory, breathing heavily himself. The pain wasn’t what hurt, not truly. Pain was pain; and this pain was no worse than _punire,_ and lived second-hand at that. No, it was the glimpses he had of himself, of how much he had degenerated from the intelligent young man he’d been who’d had the world at his fingertips…. But this was not the place for that. He’d made an impression in Draco’s mind, and hopefully it would be enough of one that it wouldn’t be fixed by the next night. Tom was too tired, too worn to do any more.

And he still had the climb to the surface to do. No doubt, he’d be caught by even _more_ memories of abuse, making him twitchy when he was back in his own mind. But he would do this. He would do it for Harry. He would do it for Draco. And he would do it for _himself,_ to prove that despite his failings, despite the wreck he had made of himself, he could still do something worthwhile.

XXX

Harry saw the first small twitches after perhaps twenty minutes of waiting. He’d turned to a book when the first few minutes had gone by without any reaction from the two kneeling on the floor, looking up every so often to see if there was any change. Now, he was starting to see signs that they were coming out, or at least Tom was. Small twitches in his face, his eyes starting to move very slightly. Harry put down his book and leant forward to watch – he hadn’t actually seen this bit before.

Finally, Tom sighed deeply and blinked, pushing himself to his feet and wiping a hand heavily over his face. He looked tired, Harry observed, lines forming around his eyes and mouth.

“Tom,” Harry said softly, not wanting to startle him. It did anyway, the man whirling around in an instant, an arm flashing up defensively to protect his face as he flinched backwards. And then, almost as quickly, he dropped the defensive pose and stood looking at Harry. “You look tired,” Harry told him, not sure whether to raise that moment where…where it looked like Tom was expecting to be hit or something. Tom sighed again, moving to his desk and slumping against it.

“I _am_ tired,” he admitted. “It’s…not easy.”

“Clearly,” Harry remarked, scanning the man. “But is it working?” Tom flashed him a small quirk of the lips that Harry had come to recognise as his version of a normal smile.

“I got through the first layer today. I managed to make a crack in his second layer, and from what I can tell, he doesn’t have a third layer beneath.”

“That’s…good?” Harry ventured, lost. He saw the aborted twitch of eyes which probably meant the man had wanted to roll his eyes but had thought better of it.

“Yes, master. It’s good,” Tom told him, a note of exasperation in his voice. “Though it does depend on what happens overnight.”

“What do you mean?” Tom was silent for a moment, looking at Draco who had once again lowered his head.

“His shields are reinforced with negative feelings of fear, helplessness, anger, grief, humiliation, and shame. If he experiences these over the time between now and the next session, as he most likely will, they will just serve to reinforce the barrier. Potentially, all the damage I did to the barrier today could be wiped away by next time.” He looked exhausted at the thought. Harry didn’t blame him – knowing all his efforts today could be for naught had to be demotivating.

“Does that mean this is useless?” Harry asked, also looking at Draco. He glanced back at Tom to see him shrugging.

“I’ll see tomorrow. If there’s still at least some damage tomorrow, it’ll be a good sign that it might be possible to get through to his inner mind.” Harry nodded slowly. Looking at Tom, he made a decision. Standing up, he walked to the door.

“Come on, both of you,” he ordered. Draco obeyed immediately, hurrying to Harry’s side. Tom was slower, but he still did it, though cast a wistful glance at his desk before leaving the room completely. Harry paused on the floor below, looking back at Tom.

“Did you get a coat for Draco when you went clothes shopping for him?” Tom furrowed his brows.

“Yes, master. Why?” Harry just gave him a mischievous look and didn’t answer. “Good. Can you get it for him, please. And one for yourself.”

XXX

Tom went into his bedroom and got his coat, still somewhat perplexed. Remembering his scarf this time, he then went to Draco’s room and pulled out the so far unused coat. Returning to his master, he raised a brow questioningly.

“OK, put them on – we’re going out.” Tom’s other brow rose to the same heights as the first in in surprise. He looked at Draco, who of course hadn’t reacted at all.

“We, master?” Harry smirked at him.

“Yes, Tom. We. It’ll do all of us good to get out of the house, even if it’s just for a walk around the block.” Ah. Tom thought he understood. Well, much as he wanted to get back to his research, his head was rather full of emotions, not all his own. He probably wouldn’t be very productive that evening, anyway.

“Agreed,” he said finally, surprised to find that he meant it whole-heartedly. It would probably do Draco good, too – seeing different surroundings, ones not associated with fear or pain. Shrugging on his coat and winding his scarf round his neck, he got Draco to do the same, though he didn’t have a scarf. Instead, Tom made sure that his coat was done up well enough to hide the collar for the most part. Unless someone looked hard at his neck, he would be fine. 

Harry had used the time to grab his own outdoor gear, so they trooped downstairs. Eyeing the door, Tom wondered how they were going to get past the ward line – it wasn’t like the door was especially wide, after all. His question was answered when Harry told him to go first, and then reached up to touch his collar, while also reaching for Draco’s. The blond slave flinched as his master’s hand moved towards his neck, but obedient as always, he returned into place an instant later. It was a bit awkward moving as a threesome, but manageable. Once they were past the ward line, of course, it was fine. There was only one problem – Draco was taking Tom’s normal spot tucked behind Harry’s right hand shoulder.

“Come walk next to me, for Merlin’s sake,” Harry told him with a note of exasperation in his voice when he noticed the way Tom was looking between him and Draco. “We’re not out in the Wizarding world. It’s just for a walk anyway.” Shrugging, Tom followed his command – he was the master, after all. Striding next to his master felt…weird. But walking with his master in general felt good.

He’d continued to go out once a week for groceries – Harry would take him outside before apparating to the Ministry; he’d walk to Sainsbury’s, get a few bags of shopping and then walk home. He’d started feeling a bit more comfortable after several times of doing it with no problems, but there was always the uneasy sensation of vulnerability. Now, with his master, he felt like nothing could harm them, especially since Tom now had permission to use defensive magic to protect his master if they were attacked. After all, unless the attack was very clearly aimed at either Tom or Draco, it would be easy enough to argue that he had thought it was aimed at Harry….

The February night air was cold, but refreshing. Tom breathed it in; let his outbreath carry more and more of the invading emotions away. Harry didn’t speak and Tom was grateful for it. By the time they reached a small park of some sort, Tom was feeling much better. Harry took a seat on a nearby bench. Draco, of course, promptly slumped down to his knees next to it. Tom eyed the ground. He knew _he_ should kneel too – the quick reaction of Draco putting him to shame – but it looked rather pebbly…

“Sit here,” Harry told him, looking him seriously in the eye. “The ground will be pretty uncomfortable and I need to talk to you anyway.” Well, with the explicit _order_ of his master, he didn’t need to feel guilty about not kneeling, did he? He sat on the bench neatly, leaving a good distance between himself and his master – there was no need to tempt fate, was there? Harry looked at Draco frowning. With a quick wave of his wand – he was getting a lot better at non-verbal casting in _all_ the areas, Tom was pleased to see – he conjured a cushion.

“Draco, put this under your knees,” he ordered. The blond did as commanded and then went back to being still and almost unnoticeable. Though thinking about that…

“Master, have you put up a notice-me-not?” Tom asked – yes, it was late on a Sunday night, but that didn’t mean no one could suddenly walk through.

“Ah, not yet,” Harry muttered, a slight blush appearing on his face, visible by the light of a nearby streetlamp. He quickly cast one, surrounding them in a bubble of magic. A moment later, he also cast a slight warming charm, raising the temperature within the bubble by a few degrees; something Tom was sure Draco would be grateful for had he been able to express it. He was silent for a bit and Tom took advantage of it to lean back on the bench and relax a bit with his hands tucked away in his pockets.

His mood had really been lifted by the fresh air and small amount of exercise, as well as ridding himself of the weight of emotions picked up from Draco. That was another downside of engaging in frequent Legilimency with someone unstable – most people were capable of controlling their thoughts so they didn’t careen unpredictably through their mind; an unstable person was not. Another characteristic of thoughts in people with mental instability was ‘sticky’ thoughts – emotions that weren’t just passing and gone, but hung around in the invader’s mind long after they’d left. It was one reason why he had rarely gone into Bellatrix’s mind, especially after her stay in Azkaban – that, and the fact he’d always been confident in her loyalty. It was also a reason why there were rarely many healers who specialised in the Mind Arts: it was an exhausting career which took a lot more out of the healer than most other branches. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss…

“I got a letter from Kingsley today,” Harry started abruptly. Tom twisted his head slightly so he could see his master’s expression better. It was troubled. “We’ll be having the reporter coming tomorrow evening. Eight o’clock.” Tom twisted his whole body slightly so he could look Harry in the eye.

“A reporter?” he asked in some surprise. Harry mirrored his expression for a moment.

“Oh, did I not tell you?” Tom shook his head. “Ah. OK, so, when Kingsley first approached me about taking Draco on, we got to talking about slaves in general and how many of them are being abused beyond anything that could be considered appropriate.” His expression and tone was dark, his eyes trained on the blond head kneeling on the other side of him. He paused for a moment, thoughts clearly running through his head. Tom waited patiently. For someone who had never really been patient, he’d sure been developing it recently!

“Anyway, Kingsley told me that he’d always had a…plan. That, after allowing the slaves to suffer for a bit to satisfy a small group of malcontents, he would use the plight of one of them to spark awareness about how slavery was being practised, hopefully aiming towards improving the situation.”

“I see,” Tom said slowly, thoughtfully. By Harry’s tone, he was unhappy with the Minister, but clearly he had gone along with it. “I’m guessing that we’re at that point now – a reporter is coming tomorrow for an interview with the Man-who-Conquered, to find out how his experience has gone with Draco Malfoy, one of the heavily abused slaves who somehow managed to make his way into kinder hands.” Harry nodded.

“Pretty much. It was supposed to happen a couple of weeks ago, but for some reason, Kingsley’s only organised it for now. But I don’t really know what to say. I mean, sure, I can talk about how Draco’s been since he’s been with us…”

“What are your objectives? What outcome do you want out of this article?” Harry thought about it.

“I want the oversight of the treatment of slaves to go to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It’s Hermione’s department, so I know she’ll make sure that some regulations come into place which will stop this level of abuse from happening. I also want some sort of post-slavery programme for people like Draco who will probably be released before the regulations are able to be put in place.” Tom nodded slowly, his eyes half-closed in thought. Some worthy goals, and ones that he could whole-heartedly agree with, given what he had seen so far, but he could also see some potential problems.

“Who is your audience? Who are you trying to engage?” Harry looked at him, looking lost.

“I don’t know what you mean. Audience?”

“Yes, master. Audience. There are many groups of people who read papers. I assume this is going in the Prophet…?” Harry shrugged.

“I think so…” Tom nodded, tapping his fingers on his knee.

“Well, the readers of the Prophet are quite different from the readers of the Quibbler, for example. Even within the readership, however, there are distinct groups, each with their own opinions and requiring different approaches. Are you trying to appeal to the Wizengamot, for example? Or the everyday witch or wizard in the streets? Or perhaps you’re trying to appeal to the other slave-owners, shame them into acting more appropriately with their slaves?” Harry looked even more bewildered.

“…I don’t know? I guess…Kingsley spoke about a ‘wave of anti-slavery feeling’, or something?” Tom considered it, looking up at the overcast sky as if for inspiration.

“It sounds like he’s aiming to hit as many groups as possible, then,” he said finally. “Difficult, but not impossible. If we can prioritise, however, it would make the message clearer. Hmm…” he thought for a while. “I would suggest that you aim your message primarily at members of the Wizengamot, as they will be required to pass any extensive regulations or budgetary factors. The secondary aim should probably be at slave-owners themselves.” Harry frowned.

“Why? If the regulations are passed, they won’t have a choice.” Tom nodded slightly in acceptance of the point, but explained his reasoning.

“Perhaps, master, but it would be better to have at least some on your side, rather than set all of them against you immediately. Some will be against the changes, regardless, but those who are already more moderate might not resist too much, and that’s all the better – the more cooperation you have, after all, the less actual enforcement will be necessary.”

“I see,” Harry said noncommittally, clearly not convinced yet.

“The third and least important group is probably the general public. We’ve just passed the election for Minister, so they won’t actually have any say in this until the next election comes around in six years. By that time, this will be such old news that practically no one will remember it. However, having some follow-up articles with people in the street being interviewed and saying they disapprove of slaves being overly abused can only help get the other two groups on your side.”

“So what does this all mean?” asked Harry, slightly impatiently. Tom shrugged.

“You tell me. What kind of message do you think will appeal to each of those groups?” Harry thought about it for a while.

“I guess with the slave-owners it would be a message that it’s not going to change everything – it’s just the more extreme elements which are not practiced by most people.” Tom nodded.

“Yes, master. If you can make it clear that you are not against slavery per se, but simply against _abuse_ , that would help not alienate all slave-owners immediately. What about the Wizengamot?” Harry hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally.

“Think about the main function of the Wizengamot,” Tom prompted. Harry breathed deeply, looking at the sky as if for inspiration.

“Uh…governing?”

“It’s more linked with your chosen career than governance,” Tom corrected gently.

“Oh, justice? Oh, I see. So, maybe, making it clear that it’s not justice – it’s abuse.” Tom gave his master a smile.

“Exactly. Now, the general public.” Harry seemed to be heartened by his previous successes and answered much more quickly.

“Maybe some juicy details – people generally like to feel shocked at things. I think that’s why Rita Skeeter was always so popular, despite half or more of her stuff being complete trash.” Tom nodded.

“Good analysis,” he praised, enjoying seeing his words light a spark of pleasure in those emerald orbs. “You could also talk about how slaves who are released in a poor mental condition will end up being a drain on the system as they will be unable to support themselves – no one likes to know their taxes are going to end up doing something they disapprove of.”

“Huh,” Harry commented, clearly caught by the idea. Then he clearly thought of something unpleasant. “But…I need to know – do you think _you_ should be part of it too?” Tom raised an eyebrow at him.

“I would have thought that would be a given, master – the contrast of the barely-responsive shell of a slave with the obedient, respectful slave with all his faculties intact.” Harry grimaced.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, seeming to hesitate. Tom narrowed his eyes at his master, trying to figure out where his thought train had led him. Contrast…oh.

“You want to reveal my former identity,” he said flatly. Harry nodded his head, seeming unenthused. Then he shook it. Then he nodded again.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It just…it seems like maybe it would have the biggest impact. After all…” he trailed off. Tom completed his thought for him.

“After all, if kinder methods have managed to tame the infamous Lord Voldemort, the darkest dark lord of the age, why should any other master need to resort to more cruel methods, except to please their own sadism,” he summarised in the same flat voice. It was…logical, he guessed, but… His anonymity had been something he’d clung to on their infrequent visits to the Wizarding world. That those who were looking at him and seeing a _slave_ at least didn’t know who he was had been something of a comfort. The humiliation had always been worse when he’d been a slave in front of people who knew who he had used to be.

But then, did it really matter? He’d be free in a few months, if all went well. Then, he’d take on the appearance of someone else, someone no one recognised, not as the former Lord Voldemort, and not as the slave Tom Riddle. And if it would help those almost-innocents who he’d helped to condemn to fates worse than death? Maybe it was worth it anyway? He realised Harry was looking at him in concern.

“Tom, are you alright?” Tom forced a smile onto his face, feeling like he was a little too vulnerable, with this whole talk of ripping his mask away in the public eye.

“I’m fine, master,” he reassured Harry, though the other man didn’t look convinced. “It…It would be the most logical approach,” he said, finding it difficult to say. It would be brief, he tried to tell himself. Like he’d said to Harry, by this time in a few years, few would even remember the story. It would no doubt be a circus for a short time, but then it would pass. And by then, he would have hopefully disappeared for good, anyway.

“Probably,” agreed his master, “but are you OK with it? I’ve noticed how you haven’t been keen to reveal who you used to be.” Why did he have to be so perceptive at times? Tom breathed deeply and looked at the way the lamplight interacted with the leaves on one of the trees nearby, how it reflected off certain parts and drew lines around others. The exercise calmed his anxiety enough to continue.

“I’m not really ‘OK’ with it,” he admitted. “But,” he started, as he saw Harry draw breath to speak. “But, I think it’s necessary,” he continued quietly. Harry frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Some of my followers know who I am – they learnt about my new form after the…after, and it only takes one of them telling their master about me to send this story in a direction we really don’t want.” Seeing his master’s continued confusion, he explained further. “If we _don’t_ say anything about it and it comes out later, it looks like we have something to hide. It’s not much of a step before opponents to the changes start saying that the whole motivation is because I’m manipulating you, or I’ve got a hold on you, somehow, and I want to make sure my followers escape their just desserts.”

“That’s ridiculous!” exclaimed Harry. Tom shrugged.

“To you, who knows that Lord Voldemort wouldn’t have wasted a single thought on his followers if it didn’t benefit him, sure. But to most people? They would just see Death Eaters, some of whom escaped justice after the first war by paying copious amounts of money, once more using influence to try to make life better for themselves. Your message would be completely lost, and so much harder to convey the second time round. Hell, it might even do the _opposite_ and spark _pro-_ slavery sentiment.” Harry opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused.

“You’re right,” he replied eventually, his tone grudging. “I can definitely see people like that odious Mr Dogbane using such tactics to keep his power.” He sighed. “I don’t want to do it without your permission, though. It feels…wrong.”

“I’m your slave, master,” Tom felt obliged to point out. “I _can’t_ withhold consent from you without your permission.” Harry looked at him levelly.

“I know that. But I’m telling you, I’m not going to reveal your identity in an article that’s likely to be read by almost every witch or wizard in Britain, without your consent. And yes, I’m giving you permission to withhold it, with the guarantee that I will not punish you for any consequences that might result from your denial.” And this…this was why Tom was finding it _so_ hard to push away his thoughts of attraction towards this man. It was because even when there was a path in front of him that was short and easy, he would not walk it if it did not fit with his moral code. Harry Potter had a will and a determination that was stronger than anyone Tom had ever met.

He hated the idea of everyone knowing who he was. Really, though, there was only one possible answer.

XXX

“Mr Potter! It’s wonderful to finally meet you!” The reporter was a bubbly young woman with strawberry-blonde hair and a nice smile. Harry had been half-expecting Rita Skeeter, though given that she no longer worked for the Prophet – and couldn’t be called ‘sympathetic’ by anyone – he really shouldn’t have. “I’m Bridget Jones from the Daily Prophet. I’m here to do a piece on your experience of slavery so far.” Harry stretched out his hand and she gave it a solid shake, still smiling widely.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms Jones. Please come in.” Stepping back from the doorway, he gestured for her to enter. Once she had, he closed the door and then directed her to the sitting room. It was already set up with some tea, cake, and two slaves kneeling on either side of where Harry would sit.

“Oh!” Ms Jones said, pausing on entry. “Are these…?” She didn’t quite know what to say, so Harry filled in the silence.

“Yes. These are my two slaves. Tom and Draco.” He gestured towards the appropriate men at the appropriate times.

“I see. Oh, Mr Malfoy…I mean, Draco? He looks better than the photos I received.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Ms Jones. Would you like some tea?” Harry asked, gesturing towards a chair opposite to his. She seemed slightly more unsure than when she had first arrived, but sat down readily enough, accepting the offer of tea with a smile. Upon hearing her order, Tom moved smoothly to fulfil it, passing the cup to Harry who then passed it over to the reporter. She watched the interaction with interest, setting her tea aside briefly to scribble on her pad. “You can call them Draco and Tom. Technically, while they’re slaves they don’t _have_ a second name,” he said dismissively. He and Tom had talked extensively over how he should act during this whole interview, even after they had returned from the walk. In fact, Harry was feeling fairly tired because of lack of sleep and then the day at Hogwarts. “And yes, I should hope that he looks _significantly_ better since I’ve actually been _feeding_ him and not beating him practically to _death_ every day.” The reporter made a note on her pad.

“I see. So, he arrived in bad condition, did he?”

“You said you’ve seen photos of him. Did your contact tell you about his injuries?” The reporter shook her head. “Well, it took several days for the marks on his body to heal, and that’s using bruise balm, burn paste and general healing salve. And those were only the superficial injuries which the Aurors didn’t heal before handing him over to me. Apparently he had massive internal damage from being beaten and…used sexually, as well as developing pneumonia and early-stage septicaemia from deeper wounds.” The reporter winced.

“You say he was…raped?”

“From all appearances, yes. Frequently.” Harry told her, his tone grim. “But ‘rape’ is not the right word to use. Under the current system, slaves are designated as objects, not as thinking or feeling beings. Thus, they cannot _be_ ‘raped’.” Ms Jones swallowed, raising a hand to her mouth before letting it drop back to her lap.

“You…you don’t sound like you agree with the practice, Mr Potter.” Harry shrugged.

“Much as I would not want to tell another person what he or she can do with his or her property, as I certainly would not like people telling me what to do with mine, I don’t agree with the practice of what I _would_ call rape and abuse.”

“Could you explain why, please? I’m sure our readers would be interested in your reasoning. After all, many people believe that the enslavement, meant as punishment as it is, should not be…uh…pleasant for the slaves involved.” Harry nodded in acknowledgement of the point.

“I completely agree about the punishment aspect – these people worked to hurt and oppress others. I would never speak out in defence of them when I know how many good people are still traumatised by their experiences during the war; by friends and family being tortured and murdered; by having their wands taken from them and being turned out onto the streets simply because they couldn’t prove magical parentage. However, I am not speaking out about punishment; I am speaking out about _abuse_. What has happened to Draco is not justice – it’s victimisation. He was bought by a sadistic master - currently under investigation for serious criminal charges, incidentally - who didn’t care one whit about his actions during the war; he cared only that Draco would be forced to bear his torture without any ability to complain or fight because of his status as a possession and the complete lack of oversight in place.”

“You sound very passionate about this, Mr Potter,” Ms Jones observed, scribbling busily.

“Indeed I am, Ms Jones. I fought the war alongside many others because I believed in standing up for truth and freedom enough to risk my life. I’m not trying to claim the credit that belongs to many actors, but I do claim some responsibility for the enslavement of all Death Eaters and Voldemort supporters considering I enacted the ritual which led to it. As such, I feel duty-bound to ensure that the purposes of the enslavement are upheld.”

“Which purposes might these be, Mr Potter?”

“Punishment…and reformation. And it is the latter which I feel may be being missed.”

“Reformation…” the reporter mused thoughtfully. “Do you believe that the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange could ever be reformed?” Harry shrugged slightly.

“To my knowledge, Lestrange was insane _before_ she was enslaved – whether her master can manage to tame her, I couldn’t possibly guess, though I wish him or her the best of luck. But I wasn’t thinking of the Inner Circle, regardless. I was thinking more of slaves like Draco here, like Theodore Nott who I saw at the recent Ministry ball; the slaves I’ve seen who I don’t recognise as any of the main actors in the attack on the Ministry or Hogwarts - the slaves with fewer than three years as a sentence. For the most part, they were not the sadistic murderers who composed much of the ranks of longer-term Death Eaters. I’m thinking of the ones who may have helped or joined the Death Eaters due to fear of what might happen if they didn’t, and Voldemort won. I’m thinking of the ones who grew up with Voldemort-supporting parents and joined barely out of school, hardly knowing any better. I’m thinking of those who are certainly guilty of the crime of supporting Voldemort, but perhaps of little else. And I’m thinking that such crimes do not deserve _this_ level of punishment.” He gestured towards Draco, who hadn’t moved a fraction of an inch throughout the whole process. Harry reached down and lifted Draco’s chin, revealing his grey, lifeless eyes to the reporter.

“What _happened_ to him?” she gasped, her hand to her mouth once more as she took in the complete blankness of his eyes and face.

“He was broken,” Harry told her darkly. “His mind, body and spirit were ground down over a period of four months until his mind hid within itself and abandoned its body to the whims and spite of his master.” He let go and Draco’s head bowed back into its usual position. “No, Ms Jones, I don’t call that justice. I don’t call that punishment. And I _certainly_ don’t call that reformation. What do you think will happen if I cannot get through to Draco by the end of his sentence?” It was a rhetorical question. “He will end up having to be supported by the Ministry because he is currently _incapable_ of taking care of himself. He can’t eat without his master feeding him. He can’t use any furniture, even when he is given permission. He can’t express any sort of thought or opinion; in a month, all I’ve heard from him is a handful of words to express acknowledgement and apology. To me, it’s not just the _injustice_ which is terrible, but also the _waste_.” The reporter barely looked up from her pad to ask the next question.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Draco and I hated each other at school, it’s true. Even so, I couldn’t help but notice that he was an excellent potions brewer. After a suitable punishment for his actions and choices during the war, he could have been of great benefit to our society. Now, the chances of that happening are…much reduced.”

“What would you consider a suitable punishment?” Harry shrugged.

“I’m not arguing about the enslavement in principle.” He gestured at Tom. “How could I when I’ve proved that it works when conducted appropriately? The idea of those who tried to oppress and enslave others being themselves oppressed and enslaves presents a scenario of poetic justice. No, like I said earlier, it’s the fact that there isn’t enough oversight to ensure that the slaves are being _justly_ punished and reformed, and not simply becoming toys for the criminal aspects of our society to abuse.” The reporter looked up frowning.

“You say you’ve proved that your method of enslavement works… Forgive me, Mr Potter, but some of our readers might be a bit sceptical of your assertion given that Tom Riddle is not one of the most well-known Death Eater names. People might point out that what works for one of the, as you say, lesser criminals, might not work for the ‘sadistic murderers’ that you mentioned earlier.” Harry almost couldn’t contain his satisfaction – she couldn’t have given him a better opening if they’d staged this together.

Still, he hesitated a moment, looking down at Tom. The man’s neck was tense, although he hadn’t even twitched. He knew that his slave had been using his anonymity as a defence against the world; after this interview, it would be gone. However, he told himself once more, they had both agreed that this was the best moment to reveal the information – if they delayed now, it could, and probably _would,_ be used against them. Besides, and he thought this with a hint of fierceness: Tom was _his_ and anyone who wanted to get their revenge on him now he was defenceless would have to go through Harry first.

“Ms Jones, I’m sure your readers would be interested to know that Lord Voldemort was an assumed name.” She looked at him in some confusion.

“I’m not sure that would come as much of a surprise, to be honest,” she said tentatively. “I think most people realise that uh, You-Know-Who wasn’t called…that…when he was born.” Harry struggled to stop himself from smiling. This was just too perfect. Using the spell which the horcrux of the very slave at his feet had once used in the Chamber of Secrets, he wrote out Tom’s name and rearranged it.

“I am Lord…” the reporter read out and then squeaked, standing up so suddenly her cup of tea crashed to the floor. “He’s…? That’s…?” She squeaked again, looking like she wanted to turn and run, but didn’t dare move closer to the door because _that_ meant going nearer the slave who had suddenly been revealed to be the former dark lord. Harry suddenly felt bad – she looked simply _terrified_.

“Relax,” he said, soothingly. “You’re in no danger. I said my methods worked, didn’t I?” Her eyes darted between him and the kneeling slave who hadn’t moved at all in the last few minutes except to breathe. Harry looked down at the man. “Tom, clear up the mess, please,” he ordered calmly. His slave stood fluidly and bowed his head slightly further.

“Yes, master,” he acknowledged, disappearing into the passageway. The reporter’s eyes followed him, even once he’d vanished. Harry cleared his throat and she darted her eyes back to him, jumping slightly.

“Mr Potter,” she started, but then stopped, her eyes flashing back to where Tom had just entered, a cloth in his hand. He went behind her chair and she leant forwards, her whole body tense. If she had been a cat, Harry was sure her tail would be sticking straight up and be completely puffed out, the rest of her fur on end. Tom picked up the cup and saucer and set it on the coffee table, kneeling down to mop at the mess it had left on the carpet. Ms Jones stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Harry cleared his throat again, and she seemed to pull herself together a bit. “Mr Potter, do you…” she trailed off. “Are you _sure_ your, uh, your slave used to be…him?” she asked, clearly changing her question halfway through. Harry laughed, surprised at the question.

“I’m very sure,” he assured her, amusement still in his voice. She frowned at him, unable to prevent herself from darting looks down at the man currently calmly mopping the floor, clearly unconcerned by being asked to clean, despite having almost conquered the Wizarding world. It was at times like these that Harry realised how far Tom had come, and in such a short time. Cleaning had become such an everyday activity that Harry doubted he would mind doing it too much even without the ‘Perfect slave’ persona, as with many other submissive actions.

“How can you be sure?” she asked, a note of confusion in her voice. “He looks so different from how…Lord Thingy was said to be.” Harry sighed, settling back into his chair.

“Before he became Voldemort, truly became him, Tom Riddle practised some very dark arts which twisted his body and mind in his pursuit of power.” He wasn’t going to mention the horcruxes: no one needed to know about those. “When Lady Magic passed Her sentence on him and his supporters, She chose to restore him to full sanity, and as a result, full bodily health. Perhaps because she didn’t feel the sentence would achieve its goal with him as he was.” Finally, Tom finished cleaning, the mark of tea gone. He disappeared back into the kitchen, returning in a few moments to retake his place at Harry’s feet. It seemed like him settling into place broke a spell – Ms Jones was finally able to concentrate back on Harry, her expression changed from terrified to fascinated.

“I see…Mr Potter, would you say that, uh, _Tom_ wasn’t of sound mind when he committed his crimes? Would you say that he doesn’t deserve his punishment?”

“Certainly not,” Harry told her, the tone of his voice implacable. At his feet, Tom broke his ‘perfect slave’ persona to look at him, his red eyes boring into Harry’s own. Harry continued speaking to the reporter, but he didn’t release Tom’s gaze all the while. “Tom was a murderer multiple times over before he even left Hogwarts. In fact, his first murder was committed _at_ Hogwarts. His victim still haunts the second floor bathrooms. While I would admit that he had perhaps an arguable case of diminished responsibility for his actions later in life, he was the one who set into motion the events that led to him being so.” Tom broke his gaze, turning his eyes to the floor once more. Harry looked back at the blonde sitting opposite him, who had been watching the interaction with interest. “So no, Ms Jones, I would say that he _does_ deserve his punishment. But even he doesn’t deserve abuse. And if Tom, the slave who used to be the Dark Lord Voldemort, the architect of two wars that killed hundreds and left thousands fearful, doesn’t deserve it, who does?”

Ms Jones didn’t speak for a moment or two, frantically scribbling. Harry had a feeling that his last sentence might actually make it into the quote as an article.

“Do you feel like, um, Tom is reformed?” Harry half-smiled, looking down at his slave and running a hand through his hair. He then quickly pulled it back, almost regretting the brief moment of affection: it wasn’t appropriate for the role he was trying to play. Ah well, hopefully the reporter would just interpret it as another humiliating gesture to humble the former dark lord.

“I think he’s definitely on his way there. Wouldn’t you say, Tom?” Tom lifted his head to look at the reporter.

“I’ve certainly seen the error of my ways,” he responded smoothly. His tone was very complex and Harry almost frowned at it. On the face of it, and perhaps all the reporter would be able to hear, he was submissive and respectful. Below that was a hint of mockery, something Ms Jones might possibly pick up on, if she was perceptive. But beneath that, where Harry was sure that only he could hear it, there was faint touch of true sincerity. Harry wondered if even Tom knew it was there. The reporter cast a quick glance at Harry, and then focused on Tom.

“Um, T-Tom, what do you think of the whole situation?” Tom looked up at Harry, ostensibly asking for permission, but the look in his eyes as he met Harry’s eyes showing he was just a moment away from sighing in exasperation. Harry flicked his fingers at Tom.

“Answer honestly,” he ordered lazily. Tom looked back at the reporter, though Harry was sure he wasn’t meeting _her_ gaze; something inside Harry purred at the thought.

“I certainly would not argue that it is a punishment,” he answered, his tone neutral. “But I was expecting it to be a lot worse.” Harry raised his eyebrows slightly at Tom, not that he could see it – how was _this_ what they had talked about?

“Expecting it to be worse? What do you mean?”

“Master could have been a lot more brutal – of all the people hurt by the war…by _my_ war, he has some of the most compelling reasons to hate me. To _abuse_ me. But he hasn’t – he’s been fair, fairer than perhaps I deserve.” Harry could barely believe the words coming out of his slave’s mouth – was this because of the ‘Perfect slave’ persona or…? “And because he’s been so much kinder to me than I thought…than _I_ would have behaved in his place…it’s made me think. It’s made me realise where I went wrong.” Ah. Now Harry could see where he was going. But, as much as he knew that this was for show…he couldn’t help but realise that it must also be for real, at least to a certain extent: he had ordered Tom to answer honestly, and since he wasn’t showing pain, he must be being at least partially honest…

“Do you regret your actions in provoking and continuing the two wars?”

“Yes,” Tom answered, then hissed in pain. “In part,” he corrected himself. After a pause, probably to see if his answer would attract more punishment, he continued. “I made many bad decisions, I realise that now, and I wish I had understood then what I understand now. I regret leading others into a fate which for some has been worse than death. But my actions have made me who I am and I can no more regret that than I can go back and change my actions.” Sensible, Harry thought – throwing out sound-bites which sounded good but didn’t have much substance to them once delved into more deeply. The only real expression of regret there was that about leading others into difficult situations, but it was all completely honest. It was the kind of politician-style speaking which Harry couldn’t, and didn’t want to master.

“Do you have any more questions for us, Ms Jones?” Harry asked, leaning forwards. It was getting late and he had the Ministry the next day.

“Just one more question for each of you, if I may, Mr Potter,” she assured him. Harry nodded in assent. “So, if we can just finish off with Tom, what do you intend to do when you’re released?” she asked, trepidation on her face. There was a thick silence for a moment.

“Ah,” said Harry, breaking the quiet. “Tom will never be released.” The reporter shot her gaze to his face, her expression surprised.

“Never be released?” she echoed. Harry shook his head.

“Lady Magic deemed his crimes worthy of a lifetime of slavery – unlike all other slaves currently bound by the collar, his sentence is to his death.”

“Oh,” she replied, her quill still for the first time since she’d started the interview. She stared at Tom, a conflicted expression on her face. “I see,” she murmured slowly, finally writing a short note on her pad. Then, looking back at Harry, she continued. “In which case, I will direct my final question to you, Mr Potter.”

“Fire away,” he invited, glad they were getting to the end.

“You’ve spoken quite passionately about your views on slavery and the difference between punishment and abuse. My question, therefore, is this: what would you like to see slavery become, Mr Potter, if what you call ‘abuse’ is not it?”

“First of all, let me make it clear that I don’t believe most people do practice abuse.” He did, actually, but she didn’t need to know that. Harry was very conscious of what Tom had said about not alienating the other slave-owners. He still wasn’t convinced it was necessary, but trusted Tom’s judgement in the matter. “It must not be forgotten that there are a number of slaves who committed many grave crimes knowingly and willingly. What I would like to see is more oversight from the Ministry on appropriate punishment, and more guidance on ways of reformation which do not require breaking the spirit or the mind of the slave in question, especially those slaves with fewer than three years as a sentence – it must be remembered that these slaves will re-enter our society as free-persons within a short period of time, and for them to enter as broken as Draco here is, will not be good for anyone. Secondly, I would like to see a post-release programme set up for those who have finished their sentences.”

“A post-release programme? Could you explain more, Mr Potter?”

“Sure. I mean some sort of course which will enable the people to come to terms with both their crimes and their slavery, and relearn how to enter society in a beneficial way.” Ms Jones nodded her head, her wavy hair bouncing slightly. She made some final notes and then looked up with a smile on her face.

“Thank you very much, Mr Potter. I think I have everything I need now. It’s been an…enlightening conversation.” Harry nodded, a smile on his face too; he hoped it didn’t look as relieved as he felt.

“My pleasure,” Harry said, surprised to find that he actually meant it, somewhat at least. It had been surprisingly painless considering his general experience of the media. She stood up and cast one more glance at Tom before walking towards the door, talking as Harry escorted her to the front door.

“I’ll be submitting my article within the next few days and it will be published next Saturday morning. Would you like to receive a copy before publication?” Harry hesitated. He should probably say yes, but it wasn’t like he would really know if it was well-done or not…ah well, he could give it to Tom to read and tell him if it had got their message across.

“That would be good, please, Ms Jones.” She nodded.

“Very well. I’ll tell my editor that you’d like to OK it before it goes to print.” The reporter paused on the doorstep, turning back, a curious look on her face.

“Mr Potter, if you don’t mind me asking…why did you purchase your once-nemesis? Did you intend revenge? Payback, in some way, for all the pain he caused you throughout your life?” Harry barked a laugh, leaning against the door frame.

“Not at all,” he told her, shaking his head. “I didn’t actually buy him.” Seeing her impatience for answers, he continued. “In fact, the Ministry gave him to me.”

“I see – as a ‘reward’ of some sorts,” she said with a note of understanding. He shook his head once more, giving her a wry grin.

“Not even that. You know that prophecy that was rumoured to exist about me and Voldemort?” She nodded, her eyes alight with interest. “Well, it did. Though, it wasn’t as clear-cut as many believed it to be. Either way, apparently our fates were too wound together for even Lady Magic to separate. The Ministry gave him to me because his collar wouldn’t respond to anyone else, and they were leery of allowing Voldemort to be running around without a fully-effective collar.”

“Understandable,” Ms Jones said faintly, the thought of a barely-controlled dark lord clearly not pleasing her. She shook herself out of it. “I see, so…you were never really a keen slave-owner in the first place.” She said it as a statement, but with a hint of question.

“No,” Harry replied simply, but then elaborated. “And it was an uphill struggle at times. But we’ve managed, and as you can see…sometimes a small bit of kindness or understanding at the right moment does more than a world of pain.” The reporter gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, but then smiled.

“Thanks again for your time, and have a good night.” Harry responded with an automatic ‘you too’, and then she was gone with a twist and a pop.

XXX

The reporter was true to her words, sending a copy of the finished article to them for proof-reading. Harry just glanced through it before passing it on to Tom.

“Here, can you check through this? Make sure everything we want to be in there is?”

“Of course, master,” Tom replied, pleased at being given the responsibility. Every instance where Harry trusted his opinion, trusted his views made a warmth inside Tom start to burn brighter and brighter. He asked Harry for a piece of paper and then, getting it, started making a few notes. Harry didn’t even look through the notes before jotting a quick note at the bottom of the parchment and attaching it to the leg of the owl which had stuck around for a while.

When the paper came out that Saturday, it arrived at breakfast. Harry laid it on the table and they were both struck by the top image.

“It’s powerful, isn’t it, master?” murmured Tom. Harry just nodded in dumb agreement. The image, Harry sitting in a power pose in his armchair, which could almost look like a throne from certain angles, was only half of it. No, it was the image of the two slaves kneeling at his feet, one light, one dark, both still and with their heads bowed, which truly made it. Despite it obviously being a Wizarding photo as Harry shifted slightly every so often, it wasn’t clear by the slaves – not a twitch was seen except the very slightest as a result of them moving.

“How did they get this?” asked Harry, sounding confused. “She didn’t have a camera with her.” Tom shrugged.

“They probably extracted a small section from her memory and impressed it into paper.”

“It’s possible to do that?” Harry asked with an impressed note in his voice. Tom just raised his eyebrow and shrugged: it didn’t seem that impressive to him, but then he supposed that after some of the magic he’d seen performed and had learnt about, using memories to create photos didn’t seem particularly…accomplished.

The article started on the first page, of course, but it continued on pages two and three, the centre fold separating two more photos – before and after photos of Draco. It was almost a shock to see the before photo: an image which must have been supplied by the Aurors as it showed Draco looking absolutely awful. Because they’d seen Draco every day, the true improvement he’d made hadn’t been as obvious. Here, though, the two photos were like night and day. Draco still wasn’t back to how Tom remembered he’d been when he’d first seen the boy – impossible to achieve that in a few weeks – but he had clearly improved from the emaciated, beaten almost to death shell that he had been when the Aurors had brought him in.

“He’s looking so much better, isn’t he?” Harry’s words echoed his thoughts as Tom’s master looked down at the slave still kneeling between them.

“Yes,” Tom agreed quietly. “Now, we just need to get his mind back.” Harry met his eyes, his gaze serious as the grave. He nodded, once. Then turned back to the article.

“Hah, they got that quote in – I knew they would!”

“Which one, master?” Tom asked, scanning the article to try to find whatever Harry was referring to.

“The one about if you don’t deserve it, who does?” Tom smirked.

“That was particularly inspired,” he agreed. Then, feeling smug, he continued. “And I wonder who came up with it…?” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes. Well done.” He glared at Tom, but it was clearly half-hearted, if that, so Tom just kept smirking.

“More importantly,” Tom remarked, “they’ve managed to hit all the target groups. Justice is the main focus, but there are enough salacious details to keep the interest of the proletariat and you’ve managed to establish enough sympathy for slave-owners that it shouldn’t immediately offend any but the most hardened.” Harry made a noise of agreement and then went back to his breakfast, his interest in the article clearly depleted.

Tom pulled it closer to him and continued reading for more detail this time, his mind busily going over the potential reactions of the various groups he knew. Of course, he wasn’t as up to date on the mood of the Wizarding world as he used to be, but he doubted that the principal groups would have changed much. Though, thinking about it, because he’d pulled so much of his support from the pure-blood communities, he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d lost both numbers and face. No wonder the Greengrasses had hosted the Ministry ball – they had never been part of his circle, but several of their business partners _had_. 

Nevertheless, he and Harry had worked well together, deciding the framework of how they wanted the interview to go and preparing some very good sound-bites that should be well received by their various targeted groups. The only disappointment was that some of the pro-slave-owner sound-bites hadn’t made their way in, but Tom supposed that it wasn’t the end of the world – the slave-owners would be the hardest to convince anyway. As long as they didn’t lose them completely…

XXX

The unusual day didn’t stop with the article. The next unusual thing was a floo call from Hermione. Well, Harry supposed it counted as a floo call – Hermione had popped her head through to make sure he was around before almost jumping through. She immediately engulfed Harry in a big hug, once more almost choking Harry with her bushy hair.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she exclaimed with a massive grin on her face, releasing him. “This is _exactly_ what I need to rally some support for my campaign!” Harry shrugged, a half-smile on his face.

“Kingsley was the one who organised it, and Tom helped me a lot with the wording,” he disclaimed.

“ _Tom_ helped you?” she asked thoughtfully. “I thought some of those statements sounded a bit…slick for you.”

“Hey!” objected Harry. “I can be slick when I want to be!” Hermione just shot him a pitying look and didn’t add anything further.

“Hmm,” she mused. “Maybe we can get him involved in some of the other parts of the campaign. As one of the slaves, I’m sure he’d have an interesting perspective.” Harry shrugged again.

“Sure, why not?”

“Oh, I’ve got so many ideas…so many people I need to contact…” Hermione turned back towards the fire, already muttering to herself. Harry grinned at her as she went through the floo, forgetting to say goodbye in her distraction. Shaking his head, he returned to his desk.

His study was not destined to be peaceful, however. The next interruption, not even half an hour later, was Tom’s voice.

“Master, you may want to come and see this.” Hearing the amused note in his voice, Harry feared for the worst. Sighing, he got up and followed his slave to the kitchen. There, he was met with a scene of chaos. Owls. Everywhere. Sitting on the table, on the backs of chairs, on the stove, clinging onto the side of cupboards like sparrows, even on the pots and pans rack! Owls battled for choice spots to sit and the losers circled overhead, hooting mournfully.

“What the hell?!” exclaimed Harry. Tom made a big dramatic gesture towards the kitchen.

“Master,” he paused like the drama queen he was at heart, a sardonic grin on his face “your fan-mail.” Harry glared at him, meaning it this time. Stomping into the kitchen he was immediately dive-bombed by owls.

“Hold up, all of you,” he told them frantically. “I can’t take all your letters at the same time. First those who don’t have a place to sit.” The intelligent things that they were, those who were sitting down and who had mantled ready to take off settled down again at his words. Harry started taking letters off those flying, but there were just so many of them. “Help me, would you?” he shot at his smirking slave who was leaning against the door frame and watching him struggle. At his grumpy instruction, Tom pushed off the frame and languidly started removing letters, building up a pile on the floor since there wasn’t a spot of room on any other surface.

Fortunately, Harry mused, he was confident that the wards of Grimmauld Place wouldn’t let any letters through which would curse him as soon as he touched them. He’d still have to be careful opening them, but at least Tom was able to help him without needing to use magic.

Finally, with the two of them working to rid the owls of their burdens one by one, they got through the horde. Harry looked mournfully at the pile of letters on the floor. He’d wanted to get some of his Auror assignments done today and then relax… Tom, the bastard, chuckled at his expression.

“Have fun, master,” he teased. Harry shot him a look which, if there had been any justice in the world, would have burnt him to cinders on the spot. Since it didn’t, an evil idea came to mind instead. Harry found a grin stretching across his face. At the sight of it, Tom looked wary, as he should.

“Oh I will. Just as much fun as you will have cleaning all _this_ up,” he said maliciously, gesturing with his arm to encompass the surfaces of the kitchen which were liberally splattered with feathers and…other evidence of the owls’ passage. Using magic to levitate the pile of letters to the sitting room, he enjoyed the sounds of Tom’s increasingly panicked responses.

“Master, you can’t mean me to…You could do it in a wave of your wand….Master! Please can I use magic at least?” Harry ignored it all, resigning himself to a good half-day spent on opening letters, and then probably the rest of the day replying to the most important ones.

By the time the next interruption occurred, in the form of Kingsley floo calling, Harry had made enough headway with the letters to be able to put them into two categories, each with two subcategories. Either the letters approved of him, or disapproved of him. Those who disapproved of him fell into two camps: those who felt like he was being too lenient; and those who didn’t like the idea that he had a slave in the first place. Those who approved did so either because he was treating those nasty murdering Death Eaters the way they deserved to be treated, by Merlin; or because he was standing up for truth, justice and sliced bread.

Well, not the last, but Harry was _not_ in the best of moods after trudging through page after page of drivel, along with catching no less than twenty spells meant to cause a variety of effects from turning his hair red - supposedly to represent the blood on his hands, if the letter it was attached to was any indication - to losing a limb. A limb which he was very attached to, thank you very much! Harry darkly wondered how many letters had been burnt up by Grimmauld Place’s wards without even making it through to him.

So, when the architect of all his current misery stuck his head through the fire, Harry sent him a fulminating glare which left no doubt as to his current mood. Raising an eyebrow in surprise, perhaps because of the dirty look he was receiving, Kingsley’s confusion was quickly cleared up as he saw the mountain of letters Harry was working his way through.

“Ah,” was all the Minister of Misfortune had to say about the matter. “Yes, I’ve had a few of those too this morning,” he commented. Harry’s glare just got stronger, though it seemed to have the opposite effect from his intention – Kingsley just grinned at him.

“Really,” Harry said, hoping that if his glare had failed to communicate how _not happy_ he was with the present situation, his unamused tone might do the job for him. No such luck.

“That’s the reason I’m calling,” Kingsley told him, sounding far too happy, in Harry’s unbiased opinion. “You did an excellent job on the interview, Harry,” he praised and Harry felt something inside him thaw slightly. Well, at least someone recognised his efforts. “So far, the vast majority of the owls I’ve received have urged me to do something about this whole situation. Having such clear support from the public gives me more of a free hand. I should be able to move oversight over the slaves to Hermione’s department directly, though she won’t be able to make any major changes without the support of the Wizengamot. On the upside there, several of the letters I received _came_ from members of the Wizengamot, so it seems like we may already have some backing there.” Harry found a smile making its way onto his face at the news – it was good to know that things were moving in the direction they wanted.

“That’s good news, Kingsley,” Harry told him. The man nodded.

“Yes, though it’s just the start. I’ll be talking to Hermione about it later today, but she’ll need to be careful with the proposals put forward – trying to change too much may lead to a backlash. I was hoping that you’d be able to help her – you’ve shown you’ve got a canny head on your shoulders.”

“I think that’s called ‘Tom’,” Harry told him dryly. Kingsley looked surprised.

“ _Tom_ ’s been helping you?” Harry wondered why he kept hearing that question today.

“Yes, he has,” Harry said with a slight bit of exasperation. “And he’s been doing a good job so far.” Kingsley’s brow furrowed.

“Do you know his motivations?” Harry shrugged.

“I think he feels responsible to an extent for leading the slaves into their fate. Having Draco here has been an eye-opener for him in some ways, I think.” Kingsley looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“It’s hard to imagine _Voldemort_ feeling guilty,” he murmured eventually. Harry sighed. Something else he’d had to be repeating a lot lately.

“Tom’s not Voldemort, not anymore. He’s changed a lot since you gave him to me in May.” Kingsley looked at him again for a long moment.

“Perhaps,” was all he said. “Have a good weekend, Harry.”

“You too,” Harry responded and then the man was gone. Harry looked back at the mountain of letters still to deal with and groaned. Ah well, there was nothing to do but just keep going, he told himself grimly.

XXX

_Slick slide in and out, slick with his blood, with lubricant, who knew? The pain never ended, it just kept going and going and going. And Master kept moving in and out, in and out. Finally, he stilled and grunted. A wave of relief as he slid out with a slick sound. Another one slid in, not Master. Pain, never ending but increased once more and the continual in and out, in and out._

Tom wrenched himself out of the memory and out of Draco’s mind with a feeling of relief and nausea. He had to admit that the constant memories of abuse were getting to him. The feelings of degradation, of objectification, of every bit of him that he’d ever liked being ground down to nothing but his base instincts…. Tom shuddered. They were bad enough when he was sucked into a memory, as happened multiple times every time he ventured into Draco. Worse, however, was the way it was affecting him even when he _wasn’t_ in Draco’s mind.

Every time Tom went into Draco’s mind and was exposed to more scenes of his master sexually assaulting him, he became more sensitive to his _own_ master’s looks of lust and longing. His dreams were starting to be filled with Draco’s memories, but instead of the cruel-faced, middle-aged man who’d characterised them originally, it was Harry who played a starring role. It was Harry who forced him to his knees as terror filled him, ordering him roughly to open up. It was Harry who threw him into a wall, holding him there with a strangling hand around his neck as he brushed Tom’s short tunic away to slam inside, no attention paid to the pain-filled noises that escaped him at the dry force that split him open. It was Harry who ordered him out of his bed to lie on the floor for whatever poor sleep he could manage, liquid dripping out of him, only to pull him back in during the night for another round.

And Tom _knew_ it wasn’t Harry, knew that it was just the consequence of delving too deeply into another’s mind. But it didn’t stop him from starting to flinch when Harry came too near, from fearing that it _might_ be Harry in the future. His words echoed again and again in Tom’s mind: ‘ _if you don’t want it, it’s rape’_ , along with the little voice inside him ‘ _but a part of you_ does _want it’_.

Still, at least he should be done with this fairly soon. Coming back to check the second barrier the day after he’d first reached and damaged it, he had been pleased to note that the damage had only slightly repaired itself. Within the days since, he had managed to make significant progress. He wondered at times whether Draco _was_ aware behind the barrier and was helping him from the other side – it would explain how quickly the barrier was shattering. At this rate, Tom suspected that he’d be through within the next week. After that…well, from what Tom had seen in Draco’s mind, he was going to require a _lot_ of support to overcome the trauma. Tom would do what he could to give it to him, and was sure Harry would do the same.

His own reaction to that, his desire to help where he’d always wanted to hurt, confused him. He knew that once, not really that long ago, instead of feeling anger at Draco’s previous master, he would have been gleefully taking notes. He would have thought the whole thing a perfect punishment to use against a traitor or someone else he needed to make an example of. Now…the thought of using it against Harry, had he won, turned his stomach. He felt a visceral revulsion at the idea that was nothing to do with how his collar might react were he to imagine harm to his master, and didn’t entertain it for even a moment. Even imagining it happening to _Severus_ …Tom was surprised to note that even with the man he hated above all others, he wouldn’t wish _this_ on him.

One day, it was just too much. Tom and Harry had been engaging in a duel – they’d increased their frequency in recent weeks: with Draco in the house, neither of them wanted their anger or frustration to become pent up and be released on the already traumatised slave. Duelling worked well for both of them – Tom was able to release his frustrations in a constructive manner, and Harry was able to improve his duelling abilities at the same time as releasing his own stress. The problem was that Tom had been becoming more and more uncomfortably aware at just how many admiring glances Harry shot his way during and after the duels.

Tom was aware of his charms, he was. He knew that his movements were graceful and elegant – had in fact worked hard as a teenager to ensure that it was the case. He knew that dripping with sweat as he was, his shirt stuck to his body and became almost see-through in places, revealing his musculature. He had stopped taking off his shirt as he became more uncomfortable at his master’s caressing looks, but it didn’t seem to have helped much. All his unease, frustration, and fear welled up in him. Suddenly, this state of not-knowing seemed worse than anything else.

Stomping over to his master, a dark look on his face, he dropped to his knees directly in front of Harry. Looking up with a glare, ignoring the completely surprised look on Harry’s face, he snapped with all the frustration and apprehension that had been growing in him for the last few weeks.

“If you’re going to…to _use_ me, _master_ , get it over with, for Merlin’s sake!” Harry took a step back, and the role reversal of it all – his master stepping back from his kneeling _slave_ – just made Tom want to either laugh until he cried, or scream. He did neither, just stayed where he was, crossing his arms defensively.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Harry managed to say, sounding completely baffled.

“I've seen how you look at me. If you want me on my knees sucking your dick, look – I’m here," Tom snapped. Then, closing his eyes and swallowing the fear that rose inside him, he continued more quietly. “I know you’re attracted to me…I can’t take the not-knowing any longer. Just…waiting for you to do _something_ is killing me.” There was silence. After nothing happening for a few moments, Tom opened his eyes, half-expecting to see his master moving closer to him, unbuckling his belt as he’d done so many times in Tom’s dreams, but no. He was just…standing there, that terribly bemused look still on his face.

Tom wanted to shout at him again, because how could his master _not know_ what he was talking about? But he felt he’d pushed his master a bit much already. And if Harry _was_ going to do something…Tom would prefer that it wasn’t done with anger-fuelled violence driving it. He knew _intimately_ how much it hurt for that to happen. Harry finally blinked _hard_ and took in a deep breath.

“Tom,” he started with forced calm, “Why would you think I’d…” He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them. “Stupid question. I’ll rephrase it. What have you observed _about me_ that tells you I would possibly touch you sexually without your eager consent? Heck, without even your _permission_? Didn’t I say when Draco first arrived that I wouldn’t rape you?”

“You said that if I didn’t want it, it would be rape,” Tom reminded him, his heart in his throat. Here. This was the make or break point. And if Harry did choose to take him, he knew he _would_ break. If he didn’t…Tom didn’t dare entertain the possibility: the betrayal of it would just hurt all the more if he had built up hope.

“Exactly!” his master exclaimed, sounding as if that should sort it all out. Tom just stayed silent. Harry frowned at him. “Why does that not reassure you?” Tom couldn’t bear to meet his searching eyes any longer and turned his gaze to the floor. “Tom…” Harry sounded so tentative, Tom was almost surprised he’d managed to speak at all. “Do you…do you _want_ it, in some way?” Tom couldn’t speak. He just gave a small, almost imperceptible, nod. “Oh,” said Harry, sounding more shocked than Tom had ever heard him. There was a long silence during which Tom wished he could just sink into the floor. Embarrassment and fear were warring away inside him, and he wasn’t sure whether he would have tried to run away if his legs had been working, even though it would be futile. It was a moot point, anyway, since he was pretty sure they were made of jelly by now.

He heard his master walk towards him and couldn’t help flinching away. Then, gritting his teeth, he tried to prepare himself for whatever would happen next. Morbidly, he wondered if Harry would want some foreplay first, or would just take what he’d been longing for over the last few months, now he had Tom’s _permission_. Then there was a rustle of fabric, and Harry’s knees appeared in his field of vision. The shock of realising his master was _kneeling_ on the floor in front of him was enough to make Tom jerk his head up again, meeting his master’s green eyes. They were sad, tired, with a hint of horror to them. Not the expression he would expect to see from someone who had just been given what they wanted.

Harry lifted his hand slowly to Tom face cupping his jaw. Tom wondered for a wild second whether Harry was going to draw him in for a kiss, and he couldn’t work out how he felt about that. Fear, certainly, but also anticipation mingled with apprehension mixed with confusion. But Harry didn’t bring his face closer, nor did he lean in. Instead, he spoke, his tone full of determination, but also full of sadness.

“Listen to me, Tom. I’m going to be completely straight with you. Yes, there’s a part of me that thinks you’re really hot, I mean, look at you,” he let out a huff of slight amusement, before sobering again. “And yes, after we got past the initial phase of snapping and snarling at each other, a part of me started wondering what it might be to have a more…amicable relationship together. But be very clear here,” he said, his tone firming as his hand on Tom’s jaw tightened slowly – not enough to hurt, but enough that Tom couldn’t turn his head away if he tried. “I will _never_ do anything like that to you without your consent. Your full, _willing_ consent. Knowing that some part of you finds some part of me attractive makes me feel…happy, but it doesn’t count as consent, in my book.

“So no, I’m not going to order you to kneel and suck my dick. I’m not going to…to pull you into my bedroom and…and _fuck_ you. Not unless you _clearly and explicitly_ tell me that that’s what you want. And not only to make me happy or because you think you might gain an advantage out of it, but because you desire me as much as I desire you. Do you understand me, Tom?” he asked, his tone leaving no doubt that he expected an answer.

“Yes, master,” Tom said, the rush of relief at him realising _finally_ that Harry wasn’t going to be like Draco’s previous master leaving him light-headed. Then, a thought occurred which left him scrambling again. “But master…we’re going to be together for a long time. What if you change your mind?” Harry gave him a half-smile, his hand dropping away from Tom’s jaw. Tom wondered for a moment why the absence of its warmth made him feel cold.

“Yes, Tom, we’re going to be together for a long time, most likely. That doesn’t mean we have to end up _together_ together, though. Sure, I’d love to explore things with you, but if you’re not equally interested, or if we tried it and it didn’t work out…there are lots of other people in the world. Heck, it might be more awkward for you, but I’m sure you could still find _someone_ in the future. It doesn’t have to be us or nothing.” He chuckled slightly, the humour sounding a bit forced. Tom wondered why that thought left him feeling even colder than Harry’s hand leaving his jaw had. Harry gave him another half-smile. “Does that help?”

Not entirely, but the thoughts Tom was struggling with now were _definitely_ not the ones that had prompted the whole discussion, so…

“Yes, master. Thank you,” he said finally, trying to force a grateful expression on his face. He had a feeling he’d failed when Harry’s eyes reflected his understanding. Harry pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand. Tom gripped it, allowing Harry to pull him up. Nodding in thanks, he brushed himself off, taking advantage of the slight bit of dust on his trouser legs to avoid eye contact.

“Alright. Just…if you ever have questions about this sort of thing…please come and talk to me about them _before_ you get yourself in a state. I’m not a mind-reader like you, so unless you tell me, I can’t help you.” Huh, much good being a _mind-reader_ did, Tom thought bitterly. And most of the time, the reason he didn’t talk to his master about these things was because if Harry didn’t _know_ about them, Tom didn’t want to _explain_ them to him! But he appreciated the thought nonetheless. Forcing a smile onto his face, he nodded.

“Thank you, I will,” he promised, knowing full well that he probably wouldn’t. With one last searching glance, Harry nodded back at him, then left the room, summoning Tom’s wand to him from where it had been on the floor as he left.

XXX

Tom dived through Draco’s mind for what he hoped would be the last time. He powered through the memories that grasped him and pulled him in with grim force, wrenching himself away as soon as he could. Reaching the obsidian-like barrier, he aimed directly for the spot which he’d been damaging. Now, in place of a small crack, there was a deep cleft. At the base of the crevice, he had started to see movement happening below the surface. That was a good sign – it indicated there wouldn’t be another barrier to get through, at least.

Settling down into the crevice, Tom manifested his ‘axe’ of emotion and started swinging at the bottom of the rift. As usual, as soon as he made some progress, a memory emerged to grasp him. He allowed it to do so, having learnt over the past few sessions that it wasn’t possible to avoid the memory – it would just hang around blocking his path until he was caught in its grasp.

_He almost trembled with nerves. He’d never been so bold before. Attaching a role of parchment containing information about the Dark Lord’s movements and the actions of his key Death Eaters to an owl’s leg, he told the bird to go to The Resistance. Hearing the sound of someone moving towards him, he paled and released the owl, hoping that it wouldn’t be caught. If it was…he’d be dead. And not quickly._

_Hurrying towards the door, he was almost at it when it opened. Filling the doorway was the creature who figured in his worst nightmares, as well as his daily terrors. He froze, desperately bringing his Occlumency shields up; they wouldn’t do much good against this being if_ he _chose to shatter them, but if he was lucky,_ he _wouldn’t decide to investigate._

_“Get out of my way, boy!” the creature hissed impatiently as he stood in the doorway for a frozen moment. He raised his wand and flicked it. A wave of force hit him across the face, like a slap, sending him sprawling off to the side. He clutched at his face, pushing away reflexive tears of pain – showing weakness to the Dark Lord just interested him more._

_“I’m sorry, my lord,” he mumbled out, pushing himself to his feet and hurrying out, his head bowed but feeling almost light with relief that the snake-like creature hadn’t wanted to investigate further. As he almost ran out, he heard the Dark Lord muttering behind him._

_“Useless boy, worse than his father ever was.” He didn’t care what this creature thought of him, not anymore. Not after he had almost been killed, after he had been treated like a plaything because of the being’s displeasure…but for some reason, the words still hurt._

Tom pulled out of the memory slowly, barely aware of it drifting away to join the others floating around Draco’s mind. So the boy had been another _traitor_ had he? The thought made a wave of anger rise in Tom, but it was immediately followed by a wave of disgust. Disgust at himself, at the _creature_ he had made himself into. A creature who hadn’t even noticed an 18 year old deceiving him under his very nose. A creature who had _driven_ the 18 year old to betray him by being so contemptible that even the _losing_ side had seemed more appealing.

Pushing the negative thoughts to one side to deal with later – his brief moment of anger had driven the memories swirling around him into greater speeds – he refocused and started mining once more. As he swung, another thought occurred: now he had an explanation for why Draco’s sentence had been so surprisingly short. Even assuming that the sentence only counted months of loyal service after his majority – which seemed likely, considering that no slave to Tom’s knowledge was under 17 – Draco had still been one of his Death Eaters for almost two years. However, if he’d spent a good portion of that sending information to the other side…Well, _Severus_ proved that disloyal service was not taken into account. 

An indeterminate time later – time in the mind always passed strangely – he heard a different sound from the usual clinking. Of course, being a mind, he knew that anything he saw or heard was just his interpretation – had Draco been there with him, he may have seen and heard something completely different – but nevertheless, he felt a sudden surge of hope. Removing his axe, he looked and saw…a hole. A wave of elation passing over him, he swung once more with renewed energy. It only took a few swings and a slight widening of the hole before there was the sound of shattering glass and he was expelled back into his own mind.

Smashing back into his own consciousness, Tom groaned at the migraine-level headache which was caused by his uncontrolled exit. Still, opening his eyes, he was met with a sight that seemed at that moment to be the best sight in the world. Draco’s eyes, gazing into his own still, finally had _life_ in them. The blond’s mouth moved soundlessly, seemingly grasping for something to say. When he found some words, they were _not_ the words Tom had expected.

“My lord?” Draco asked, a faint hint of horror in his voice. Then, in a sudden movement, he got to his feet and _ran_ away from Tom, reaching the furthest wall away from him and cringing against it, looking like nothing more than a trapped animal with his wide eyes and grasping hands. Tom sighed and got to his feet, walking towards the only door in the place. He didn’t think it was a good idea to leave Draco alone, not in this state. With what the blond had recently been through, Tom wasn’t surprised that he would be confused: his memories were no doubt completely jumbled. On the other hand, Tom couldn’t use magic so wasn’t the best person to deal with an unstable but _active_ Draco. Sure, he could use the collar against the slave, but figured that at this point, that would be counterproductive. Instead, he called for the person who he figured would be able to deal best with this.

“Master!” he shouted down the stairs, keeping a wary eye on Draco.

“What?” came the faint response.

“Can you come here, please?” There was a pause.

“Why? What’s happened?” Tom sighed in annoyance. Couldn’t the man just come up?

“It’s hard to explain shouting down the stairs, master. Can you just come please?” There was silence, but then Tom started hearing the sound of his master’s grumbling.

“Where are you?” he shouted once more, on the floor below, his tone clearly irritated.

“In the library,” Tom answered. A few moments later, Harry came into view, looking grumpy.

“I was in the middle of an essay,” he complained. “What was so important you needed me to come up?”

“He’s awake,” Tom said simply. Harry’s eyes went wide in surprise.

“Really?” he asked, moving quickly to the entrance. “Oh,” he murmured taking in the whole scene – Draco plastered against the other wall like some sort of terrified animal. He moved forwards slowly. “Draco…do you recognise me?” he asked gently, quietly. Draco’s eyes shot to him and his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Potter?” he muttered and then cried out in pain as the collar evidently punished him. It wasn’t that bad a pain, Tom thought critically. He would have thought Draco would have more pain tolerance considering everything… Then deciding that such a thought was uncharitable even for him, he stepped forwards.

“Master, he’s probably confused. He needs time to rest and make sense of his memories again,” he told Harry. Tom wasn’t sure what it was – him approaching or calling Harry ‘master’, but Draco’s eyes went even wider and then rolled up in his head. He slumped to the ground in a dead faint. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: a character makes a slight reference to potentially committing suicide in a particular scenario; explicit references to rape and other abuse through memories – no present time rape or abuse. 
> 
> If you're interested in reading the newspaper article that came from the interview, I've actually written it out and I'll be posting it as another work in this series (the fourth work, I imagine) as soon as this chapter's up.


	7. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is awake and both Harry and Tom find themselves being woven even tighter into the campaign for slaves' rights. Support, however, may come from unexpected places, as well as opposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I'm getting pretty excited about what's coming. This chapter is the last of the build-ups: from next chapter onwards, it's going to be a roller-coaster ride, ladies, gents and everyone in between, so buckle up :D The scene at the end is one that I've had visualised since chapter 3, and we're now getting onto plot which has been intended since the beginning (unlike so many things in this story which really just happened). 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter that haven't been covered in previous chapters. By this point, you should all know the drill ;) 
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, hearing what you think really makes my day!

Harry cursed and snapped his wand forwards, releasing a locomotor charm that took effect just before Draco hit the ground. The blond now floating, Harry turned to Tom.

“What now?” he asked, feeling slightly lost.

“Well, like I said, master, he will need some time to organise his memories again. From what I know of these cases, when the inner mind is released, it usually causes severe disarrangement of at least all recent memories.” Harry frowned. He thought releasing Draco’s inner mind was meant to make things better.

“So what can we expect to see later? Will he be _able_ to rearrange his memories?” Tom took a moment to answer. When he did, it wasn’t what Harry had been hoping to hear.

“It’s hard to say. There are few cases of this happening and the person coming out of their entrapment even remotely sane, but in those cases there were a variety of results. Some, after a period of disorientation, were able to reorganise their memories, both short term and long term, through meditation. Others were not so lucky: they were able to reorganise their memories to a certain extent, but lost a good portion of them forever, including all memory of what happened during their entrapment. A very unlucky few were left with permanent memory problems, unable to store new memories; forced into long term care as a result.” Harry nodded, his heart sinking as the litany of potential issues was explained in a neutral voice.

“What do you think will happen here?” he decided to ask. Tom shrugged slightly.

“It’s impossible to know at this point. That Draco was able to recognise both of us is a very positive sign, as is the fact that he was capable of being verbal immediately after breaking free. More than that…we’ll see when he wakes up.” Harry shot him a sharp look.

“He recognised you?” Tom looked away.

“He called me ‘my lord’,” he admitted. Harry took in a sharp breath. But, thinking about that…it was a pretty large leap to take – Tom didn’t look a thing like Voldemort, not as he had been at the end, anyway. He said as much. Tom’s eyes flicked back to him and Harry was surprised to see a small amount of relief in them. Relief about what, he wondered. “My eyes are the same, master, and since he was staring into them, I suspect it was more obvious than to most,” he suggested. “Though the indication that he can make such leaps of logic despite his confused state is another good indication that he might be one of those to make a full recovery.” Harry accepted that, but felt like he should make something clear.

“Your eyes aren’t the same,” he contradicted. “Sure, they’re still red, but you don’t have the slit pupils you used to. Plus, given that you’re not all angry and insane anymore, they have a very different…” he grasped for a word that could describe what he was thinking, “feel”, he finished lamely. A hint of a smile touched the corner of Tom’s mouth.

“Thank you, master,” he said, the relief Harry had seen earlier making its way into his voice. He focused on the still-levitated Draco. “Now, I suggest that we put him in his room and leave him to wake up by himself. Locking the door would probably be a good idea, but put a charm on him to know if he does anything dangerous when he returns to consciousness.” Harry accepted that locking the door was probably a good idea when they would be going to bed within a couple of hours and didn’t know when Draco would wake up. But a charm to detect dangerous behaviour…?

“Do you think he’d do something dangerous? And dangerous to who?” Tom shrugged.

“Who knows what his state of mind will be like? Assuming that he can recover even half of his recent memories, don’t forget he’s just gone through a horrendous experience and has woken to see both his former lord and his schoolyard rival. Given such provocation, he might easily do something…drastic.” Harry conceded the point. He hadn’t thought of it like that but…Tom was right. Though that raised another question.

“How are you?” Harry asked quietly. “You’ve been… _off_ recently. Twitchy, flinching, avoiding me. More obedient than usual. Are you…OK?” he asked, staring directly at his slave, his expression showing he expected an answer.

“I thought you would have appreciated my obedience,” Tom snarked back at him, but at Harry’s unimpressed look, he sighed and looked away. “It’s been…difficult,” he admitted, his tone quiet. “More difficult than I expected, perhaps. Draco’s mind was…very unstable. I couldn’t prevent myself from seeing what he saw, feeling what he felt, from his perspective.” He met Harry’s gaze and the pain inside those crimson orbs made something in Harry’s chest hurt. Nodding, Harry felt like he understood – who wouldn’t be twitchy after experiencing the hell that Draco had clearly been through, even if it was just through a memory?

“Well,” Harry said quietly. “You’re done now; take the time you need and Tom? If you need to speak to anyone about it, I’m here.” There was a long moment where Tom searched Harry’s eyes for some sort of answer. Then he dipped his head.

“Thank you, master.” His tone gave no indication whether he would or wouldn’t seek Harry out, but at least the offer was there. Nodding, Harry walked out of the room, Draco following him as if on an invisible stretcher.

XXX

Harry woke too early. This time, it wasn’t an alarm that woke him – thankfully it was Saturday – but the charm that he’d put on Draco’s door to wake him if the man tried to leave the room had gone off. Groaning, he decided that he needed to go and see how his slave was: if he was feeling well enough to leave the room, he’d probably be alright for a conversation.

After they had had the discussion in the library, Harry had realised he didn’t actually know any spells to monitor the wellbeing of someone else, so had gone back to Tom for help. The man had taught him a spell he called ‘suicide-watch’ which monitored someone for attempts of self-harm. Harry hadn’t asked _why_ Tom had learned such a charm, the images of dungeons and chains springing to mind, but he’d learnt it all the same. Fortunately, that spell hadn’t gone off, so Harry was hoping that whatever state of mind Draco was in, it wouldn’t be terribly negative.

Before leaving his room, he had a sudden thought and decided to get dressed – turning up at the room of a rape-victim wearing nothing but boxers and a ratty t-shirt would probably send the wrong message. Knocking on the door, he waited for a moment as he heard movement. Then, as the movement stopped and no other sound came, He opened it. Sure enough, the sight that met his eyes was what he had been half-expecting.

Draco was on his knees a couple of paces away, his head bowed, but this time he was trembling, little movements that made the tips of his long hair dance. Well, Harry decided to take it as a good sign that he was cognisant enough to feel apprehension, something he hadn’t really been showing up until that point except when faced with clear potential dangers. That Draco still felt afraid of him despite him not having shown any violence to him so far was both depressing and slightly irritating, as much as Harry tried to push the latter away – it certainly wouldn’t help the situation. Harry also reminded himself that Draco had been through a very traumatic process and some of those memories probably felt like they’d happened yesterday, assuming he could still remember them, that was.

“Master,” Draco greeted him in a tremulous voice barely louder than a whisper. “What can this slave do for you?” he continued, his hand twitching on his lap as if to do something. Harry wasn’t sure what. Well, at least it seemed like he had _some_ of his recent memories: Harry couldn’t imagine a world where Draco Malfoy would call him ‘master’ otherwise.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked quietly, leaning against the door frame.

“Master?” he sounded confused, but at least there was more life to him than previously.

“Just answer the question honestly,” Harry instructed him gently. “I won’t punish you for an honest answer.” Draco hesitated for a moment, but then answered.

“Confused, master. My memories…” he put a hand up to his head as if it hurt. “They’re…hard to access. Hard to remember.” Harry nodded, though Draco couldn’t see him.

“What do you remember?” he asked, though as he did so, he wondered whether it was a good idea to get him to do so. Hell, he had no training in this sort of thing! He was trying to become an Auror, not a healer, for Merlin’s sake!

“A man…my master…he hurt me…” Draco’s trembling increased. “He wouldn’t stop…he just, he just kept going and going and going…” he trailed away and Harry thought he saw the glint of tears as his breathing increased in rapidity.

“Draco,” Harry said. When the man didn’t respond, he started worrying. “Draco,” he said slightly louder. Still no response. Biting his lip, he knelt next to the blond and touched his shoulder gently. The man flinched violently away from his touch, so violently, he fell onto his side. A moment later, he was gibbering apologies and crawling towards Harry, his head so low Harry could only see his hair. When hands started smoothing up Harry’s legs and towards his crotch, he decided it was enough.

Gripping those thin wrists gently, but firmly, he continued to say Draco’s name gently and repeatedly, telling him he was safe, he wasn’t with the man any longer, that he didn’t expect Draco to touch him like that. Slowly, the violent tremors racking his frame subsided and his hands hung limply in Harry’s grip. Releasing them slowly, Harry sat still on his heels.

“Are you with me, now?” he asked with understanding – he knew what it was like to be caught in the past, to be unsure whether he’d got out of the situation or whether he was still in the nightmare.

“I’m sorry, master,” Draco said, his voice sounding tired and hopeless.

“For what?”

“For not answering your question, master.” Harry made an impatient gesture which he immediately regretted when Draco flinched violently again.

“It’s no matter. I shouldn’t have pushed so much – you’re still processing. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, master,” Draco answered, sounding wary. Harry pushed himself to his feet, grimacing as his knees protested slightly – he didn’t know how Tom (or Draco) could kneel for so long: it was pretty uncomfortable. Then again, he supposed they were both used to it. And if a part of him felt guilty because he knew he wouldn’t be telling Tom not to kneel anytime soon because he looked so _good_ when he did it…? Well, no one else needed to know, did they?

“Come on,” Harry told Draco. “We’ll get some breakfast.” Draco got to his feet slowly, the glint in his eye showing through his hair and telling Harry that he was just waiting for Harry to lash out. _He’s basing his reactions on his previous master_ , Harry tried to tell himself. It didn’t help his feelings of guilt or it’s accompaniment of frustration at the situation and anger at the previous master who had done all this to his slave. Electing not to say anything more, Harry turned and went down the stairs. That Draco was following him head bowed in his usual position was immediately evident.

When they entered the kitchen, Draco went straight for his usual spot next to Harry’s chair. Harry wondered whether to remind him that he could sit at the table, but decided that it might be too much, too fast still. He wouldn’t be hand-feeding Draco if he could avoid it; that was for sure. Yes, he understood that it encouraged dependency on the master as well as gratitude, but he didn’t _want_ to encourage _either_ emotion, particularly. Heck, he was trying to help Draco recover enough to be released in April, for Merlin’s sake!

Putting two slices of toast on a plate and smearing them with jam, he slipped two more slices in the toaster. Then, picking up the dish, he walked over to the table.

“Here,” he said, handing the plate to Draco. The slave took it from him with a trembling hand that threatened to upset both pieces onto the floor. Harry tried to ignore it. “You can feed yourself now, right?” he asked. The trembling increased until Draco placed the dish on the floor with a clatter.

“As you wish, master,” he responded, his tone fearful. Sighing slightly, Harry walked away to prepare his own food. Returning to the table with his peanut-butter smeared toast, he was slightly surprised to see the plate was untouched. He’d thought Draco was hungry.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” he asked, starting to crunch on his own piece of toast.

“Yes, master,” Draco replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. Harry watched as his hand twitched towards the toast several times, but each time withdrew without touching it.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, frowning as this continued. There was a silence for a moment before Draco burst out.

“I can’t, master!” he sounded tortured, his voice a wail of despair. “I’m sorry, master, but I _can’t_.” Now very concerned, Harry shushed Draco who was now sobbing brokenly.

“Hey,” he said, his hand moving towards Draco’s head before he paused, casting a quick cleaning charm on it. Then, no longer worried about smearing Draco’s silky locks with peanut butter, he stroked gently in the way that had been so well received by Tom on the occasions it had happened.

Looking up at a movement in the doorway, he raised his eyebrows in surprise to see Tom standing there, his arms crossed and a frown on his face as he leant against the doorframe. Not sure exactly why he should look so displeased, Harry put it out of his mind – he could only deal with one slave at a time. The slave in question was still distressed, no longer sobbing, but continually muttering apologies. “It’s OK, Draco,” Harry said, making sure his voice was gentle. “Pass the plate up here.” He complied with a hand that once again threatened to send it all onto the floor.

Taking a piece, Harry held it in front of Draco’s mouth, feeling him take bites from it carefully. Whenever Harry lifted his hand to get another piece, Draco murmured a grateful ‘thank you, master’. It wasn’t anything new – he’d been doing it since he’d arrived – but somehow, knowing that this was _Draco_ , and not just a persona operating in place of his real mind…it made Harry feel terribly sick. He was so, _so_ thankful that Tom didn’t do this. Yes, the man knelt, he obeyed, but somehow, when he did it, Harry felt a sense of triumph, a sense of achievement. Maybe it was because he’d never been a victim; he’d never _broken_. The thought of Tom like this, his mind shattered, his sense of self destroyed…it made Harry feel even sicker than this display of Draco’s.

Finally, the ordeal was over and Harry levitated both plates to go and sit in the sink.

“OK, let’s go into the sitting room. We need to go over a few ground rules, again.” Draco stood up obediently, but seeing Tom looming in the doorway, he cringed away, backing up until he hit the table behind. Harry looked at him in slight exasperation. “What’s the problem, it’s just _Tom_?” Draco trembled again.

“Master,” he started, then hesitated, wetting his lips. “Master, he’s…that’s…the _Dark Lord_!” he said the last in a rush like it was a great secret that he wasn’t sure he was supposed to reveal. Which, Harry considered, might be exactly what he was thinking. Maybe he thought that somehow Harry didn’t know his slave’s former identity. Maybe he was worried that he could get punished from two sides – from Tom for revealing his identity; from Harry for not revealing it. Clearly, at the moment, he was more afraid of Harry and his possible retribution than that of Tom’s. Thinking about it, Harry supposed he was correct – Tom certainly didn’t have any power over Draco that Harry didn’t permit him. Huh, that reminded him…

“Tom, I’m revoking the control you have on Draco’s collar,” he said, ignoring the furious gaze which met his own. “If Draco does something which presents harm to either himself or someone else, you have permission to incapacitate him magically until you can bring the incident to my attention. No harm, though,” he warned, eyeing his dark-haired slave.

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged, unhappiness in his voice. Harry hoped he hadn’t got too used to the feelings of command – he’d wondered whether it was a good idea giving him the permission in the first place, but it had proved useful…Now it just proved to be seen whether it would have negative effects on Tom’s own progress. He looked back at Draco, only to see him still looking terrified. Feeling like rolling his eyes, and then suddenly guilty at wanting to do so, Harry tried to be patient.

“Draco, it’s OK, I know he was Vol- the Dark Lord. But he’s not anymore. He’s just Tom, a slave like you.” Seeing that he still didn’t look convinced, Harry _did_ sigh.

“Tom, come here,” he ordered, irritation in his voice. Tom shot him a glare but complied without complaint. When he got nearer, Harry gave him the next instruction. “Kneel.” Tom flicked his eyes at Draco and then back to Harry.

“Master?” he asked, sounding a bit wary. Harry just raised his eyebrows at him. With a sigh of his own, Tom sank to his knees. Harry was surprised at how he felt when Tom did so – a shot of adrenaline into his system, pleasure darting lightning-fast through him. It wasn’t something _completely_ new, but the feelings were a lot stronger than the last few times it had happened. Maybe it was because he had demanded Tom’s submission in something he didn’t want to do, and Tom had done it without being forced by the collar… Clearing his throat, he looked away, back to Draco.

“You see?” Draco stared at him, and then stared at the kneeling Tom who was looking increasingly more displeased. Deciding his point had been made well enough, Harry looked back at Tom. “You can get up now.”

“Thank you, _master_ ,” Tom sneered as he got to his feet. Harry raised his eyebrows at the man in surprise – he hadn’t heard that tone in a while. What was eating the man? Surely it couldn’t be him asking him to kneel in front of Draco – it wasn’t the first time, he’d done it after all. Granted, it was the first time he’d had to kneel while Draco was standing, and it was the first time he’d had to do it while Draco was aware… Ah, he’d get over it, Harry decided.

“When you’ve finished breakfast, come meet us in the sitting room,” Harry instructed. Tom acknowledged the order in the same disrespectful tone before going to the stove and putting a frying pan on it. Harry rolled his eyes at the man’s back before shaking his head and exiting the kitchen, Draco trailing after him.

Going to his normal armchair, Harry relaxed back into it. Seeing Draco hovering nearby, he pointed at the rug. “Kneel on that,” he ordered. The slave obeyed him as quickly as always, though Harry was glad to see less of the doll-like movement than before. Once Draco was settled, Harry continued. “Now, Tom’s going to take a bit of time to join us, so I want you to meditate or whatever it is you need to help rationalise those memories of yours. Do you have an idea of what to do?” Draco nodded.

“Yes, master.” Harry nodded.

“Good. I’m just going to stay here and read a book. You do whatever it is you need to do.” So saying, Harry summoned his Potions theory book and started reading, looking out for information he might be able to use in future essays. At the same time, he kept half an eye on Draco, seeing how the man first kept eyeing him uneasily, then settled into some sort of restless state with his eyes closed, before finally relaxing into his meditation. His expression smoothed out and his breathing became deep and regular. Harry might have thought him asleep if not for his upright position. Nodding to himself, Harry turned his attention fully onto his book.

XXX

Tom cracked an egg on the side of the hot pan with rather more force than necessary. He cursed as he realised that part of the egg had gone down the wrong side of the pan, creating more mess that he’d have to clear up later. Then, in his irritation, he dropped the rest of it too quickly into the pan and the yolk broke. Snarling at it, he crushed the egg shell pieces in his hand before throwing them in the bin.

Honestly, he knew he wasn’t really angry at the food. No, he was angry at his master for humiliating him in front of his erstwhile follower-turned-traitor. Forced to kneel before both of them, those frightened grey eyes becoming filled with contempt…No. If he was frank with himself, he knew that it wasn’t Draco who had been the problem. It wasn’t even the command to kneel – he’d had to kneel in far more humiliating occasions than this one. No, his bad mood had started when he had entered the kitchen and seen his master’s hand in Draco’s hair, something that heretofore had been solely for him.

A surge of emotion had hit him, an emotion he knew very well – jealousy. That Draco would be enjoying something meant only for _him_ …And behind it: the fear of rejection. He knew he was attractive, knew that Harry desired him, but using that attraction to keep Harry’s attention was still a frightening prospect, despite his master’s reassurances. Apart from his looks, what did he have that Draco didn’t?

He was defiant and grumpy; Draco was obedient and submissive. He was fifty years Harry’s senior; Draco was the same age as him. He had killed Harry’s parents, led to the death of his godfather, and exposed him to Dumbledore’s machinations; the worst Draco had done was failed to kill Dumbledore. Tom sighed, staring blankly at his egg as it bubbled and popped in the oil.

Why was he even concerned over this? His bond with Harry was forever, at least until he found a way to break it; Harry’s bond to Draco would be broken in just over two months. The little blond irritant would be out of their lives and Tom didn’t need to be concerned about any sort of attachment between them. He still wasn’t certain _why_ he _would_ be concerned, but… Then a little voice suggested a possibility that made him stiffen. What if…what if after Draco was freed, he didn’t want to leave Harry? It wasn’t impossible – Tom had seen truly broken pets who had returned to their master, even after having been rescued: the world without the one that they had been made to become dependent on was a scary place, and many couldn’t deal with it. And it wasn’t inconceivable that Harry might let him – although Tom knew he was irritated by some of Draco’s behaviours, he might feel enough guilt at Draco’s inability to handle life to allow him to remain…

That would be unbearable. To have Draco there, a free man. To watch him entwine himself around Harry’s thoughts, in his life. To have to be respectful to the man in his own home. To know that _he_ was receiving Harry’s affections, that _he_ was enjoying Harry’s regard… Tom imagined it, imagined himself being relegated more and more to becoming furniture, only paid any attention when he was given an order or a punishment…even the last wasn’t guaranteed – thanks to the collar, Harry didn’t need to involve himself in punishing any misbehaviour because it would do the job for him. With a sense of loss, he realised that he hadn’t appreciated the increasingly amiable interactions they’d been having until he envisioned a future where they were absent. It was intolerable, Tom decided with a scowl.

But, he realised, what could he actually do about it? Sure, he could try to terrorise Draco so much in the time they had left that the man wouldn’t even _think_ about trying to stay. That approach might backfire, though – if Harry realised what was happening, it might make him see Draco in a better light, might make him feel more concern over the blond. That in turn might make him more likely to see the irritant later; once Draco was free, Tom wouldn’t be able do _anything_. Alternatively, he could try the reverse approach – doing his best to help Draco recover as much as possible. That way, Harry wouldn’t have to take any part in the blond’s care and, thus, probably wouldn’t develop any sort of bond with him.

Tom sighed. The second option seemed the most likely to achieve his ends, plus it helped assuage the guilt inside him that Draco’s current state was at least partially his fault. It was just…he had to trust to chance; he could only do a little to influence the future. In his new position as a slave, he could only do so much before the rest of it was up to his master.

The smell of burning met his nose and he refocused only to curse. The egg in the pan was blackening, overcooked. Quickly switching off the flames, he stared at the pitiful thing he had attempted to make for breakfast. He hated waste. So did Harry. In the end, despite his lack of hunger after his dark thoughts, Tom ate the blackened lump. The bitter taste of the carbon mingled with the bitter taste of his helplessness.

Entering the sitting room after cleaning up the pan, his teeth were further set on edge by the cozy scene he saw – Harry in his armchair, flicking through a book with the occasional look at the blond; Draco kneeling on _his_ rug, eyes closed. Harry looked up, then picked up his wand and flicked it at Draco. Tom recognised the motions as those of a silencing charm.

“Tom, come here,” Harry instructed, pointing at a spot just in front of him. Tom obeyed, reluctance in his motions for all that he tried to hide it – he didn’t want to be part of a scene which was the beginning of the end for any amiability between them. Kneeling on the spot, he stared at the floor, unable to even look at his master, not wanting to see those eyes gazing past him. There were a few moments of silence before Harry broke it.

“So, I told Draco to meditate. I was thinking you should probably look in his mind to see how his mental reconstruction was going. Do you think that’s a good idea?” Of course, the first thing he would say would be about _Draco_ , Tom thought scathingly. Nonetheless, he tried to control his anger, at least a bit.

“As you wish, master,” he replied, almost wincing at the resentful tone of his voice – he was trying to _not_ set the other slave up as a potential rival, wasn’t he? There was another pause.

“I thought maybe he should come out of it on his own. Do you agree, or do you want to use Legilimency on him now?” Tom just shrugged. There was an aggravated sigh from Harry.

“OK, out with it, Tom,” Harry told him impatiently. Tom flicked his eyes up at his master.

“Master?” he asked, filling his voice with confusion. Harry stared at him pointedly.

“You’ve been grumpy since you got up. I would have thought you’d be happy that Draco seems to be recovering, at least partially, but…you aren’t. So, out with it.” Tom opened his mouth to speak, then closed it a moment later. What could he say? His insecurities were _embarrassing_ and pointless to dwell on. Besides, he didn’t know how his master would react, and wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know. Harry sighed. “Do you need me to use the collar to force you?” he asked, his tone facetious. When Tom just looked away in response, he made a soft ‘oh’.

Tom hated showing the weakness, and he refused to ask for an order – he’d only ever done that once before and that was for a greater end. This…this was just his stupid emotions refusing to behave; he _couldn’t_ ask for an order for _that_. No matter how a little voice muttered inside him that it would be easier. No matter how much he might feel that not having to make the decision and keep in mind all of the consequences might be a relief. No, he didn’t ask for an order…but he did let the silence speak for him.

“Tom,” Harry started, his voice carrying that steel edge Tom had become so familiar with. “Tell me what the problem is fully and truthfully. I’m not having you worrying needlessly over something like that whole discussion we had recently about…about consent.” With the order in place and his compliance ensured, Tom opened his mouth again, but still the words wouldn’t come out. It wasn’t until his collar stung him with a short, sharp pain that he felt the lump in his throat unlock and allow the words out.

“I didn’t like seeing your hand in Draco’s hair,” he admitted. Harry frowned.

“Why is that important for you? I was just doing it to calm Draco down – it usually seems to do that for you.” Tom swallowed. Again, his throat choked up until the collar forced his compliance with a slightly stronger shock of pain.

“Its…It calms me down because I associate it with safety, with you being pleased with me. I…I don’t want to share that with Draco.” To his horror, he felt the prick of tears in his eyes, and he swiftly looked away, blinking until they retreated. He would not _cry_ over something so insignificant! Not when he had held his tears at bay through much more trying times. When he looked back at his master, Harry was gazing at him thoughtfully.

“Why do you feel threatened by Draco?” he asked perceptively.

“I don’t feel threatened by Draco!” Tom objected strongly, only to clutch at his neck and grit his teeth with his eyes closed as a strong wave of pain ran through his body at the lie. “I’m sorry, master,” he gasped out, the apology being enough to let the wave abate slowly. “I just…” he trailed off, his pride rising in him once more to choke him. The sting of the collar as he paused for longer than it deemed necessary was once again enough to allow him to speak. “I’ve…I’ve enjoyed our discussions, our duelling, our lessons… I don’t want that to end and…I can’t help thinking what might happen if you want him to stay around, even after he’s free. I know you can’t replace me physically, but…” The words came out in an embarrassed murmur, his eyes looking away as if doing so was enough to prevent his master from hearing, from reacting.

Finally, his silence was allowed by the collar – the real issue having been exposed to the harsh light of day, for all that Tom hadn’t been able to complete the thought. Unable to look up, castigating himself inside at his weakness, Tom waited for his master to respond. When Harry started chuckling, Tom looked up in indignation. Here he was, baring his…baring his _soul_ and Harry just _laughed_? When his furious red eyes met Harry’s gaze, he saw a hint of remorse creep into them.

“I’m sorry,” Harry told him earnestly. “I shouldn’t laugh. And I _wasn’t_ laughing at you, not really. Just…I never thought that we would get to this point, where you actually _want_ to have more interaction than me than the absolute minimum necessary. I was laughing at the situation. Because honestly, Tom,” and those eyes were warm, too warm for the emerald green they were, “I enjoy it when we have discussions and lessons and duels and little inside jokes. I hated the Ministry ball, but somehow, the fact that we were a team…well, it made it manageable. The same with the interview. I like seeing it when you think through a political problem, when you come up with a strategy that I would never have thought of in a million years. I like it when…” he paused for a moment and blushed, “when you get that small hint of a smile that shows more in your eyes than on your lips.”

He fell silent, perhaps too embarrassed with his own outburst of emotion. Then, rallying himself, he soldiered on. “So, you don’t have to worry about me… _replacing_ you: I don’t think I could. Draco is, I suppose, technically my slave for now, but he’s not _mine_. I’m taking care of him because I have to, really. Nothing more. But you? You’re _mine_ and will be for the rest of our lives. That scared me when I first learnt about it,” he admitted. “It doesn’t scare me any longer.”

Tom couldn’t help that same smile that Harry had referenced from appearing on his face. The emotions that filled him were for the most part confusing, but he recognised the possessiveness in both of them. He was sure they were both twisted: that declaration Harry had made that Tom was _his_ filled Tom with a sense of dark satisfaction. Perhaps it was because in that moment, Tom knew that Harry was his just as much as he was Harry’s.

It seemed completely natural for him to shuffle into a position where he was kneeling at Harry’s feet, leaning against his legs with his hand running through his hair. Staring at Draco on the rug, Tom suddenly felt so much better. He didn’t need to feel jealous, he decided. Not when he was here and Draco was there, and there would always be that separation. Following his instincts, he wound an arm loosely around Harry’s calf. He heard a snort from above his head, but his master didn’t order him to move, so he took it as a victory.

No, Tom thought, looking at the blond. He didn’t need to feel jealous. The blond was a passing interest, transient and soon to be gone. In that calmer state, he finally realised that the gaze he had thought in the kitchen was filled with contempt, had actually just been filled with fear. And he felt pity, freed of his concerns about abandonment, about rejection; pity for the broken thing that Draco had become and the fact that he didn’t have this, he didn’t have _Harry_.

Then a small voice whispered in the back of his mind: _but you won’t have Harry forever either, will you?_ With the thought came the feeling as if someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. He shivered as he recognised the truth in it: he only had Harry until he broke free of the collar. Then he, and Harry, would be gone. And with an aching regret, he wondered whether he would truly be able to take that step when it came.

When Harry summoned a book for him to read, just so he didn’t have to move away to get it himself, that ache just increased.

XXX

In the end they did wait for Draco to come out of his mind on his own. It was probably the best option, Tom thought. Certainly, when he ‘woke’, he looked less…lost. Noticing his eyes were open, Tom shifted next to Harry’s legs, but didn’t move from his half-sitting, half-kneeling position.

“Master,” he said quietly, gaining Harry’s attention. Seeing those emerald eyes looking at him, he nodded towards Draco.

“Ah,” Harry responded quietly. Waving his wand, he removed the silencing barrier from around the blond. “Draco, Tom’s going to use Legilimency on you. He’s just going to see how your memory reconstruction’s coming on, OK?” From Draco’s terrified look as his eyes landed on Tom’s, it was very much _not_ OK, but regardless of whatever progress he’d made in his mind, he was still thoroughly traumatised and would in no way attempt to argue with his master.

“Yes, master,” he responded obediently instead. Tom moved over to Draco, kneeling down next to him, noting the flinch and body language that said the blond wanted nothing more than to run away from him. Freed from his concerns about Draco replacing him and fuelled by his decision in the kitchen that the best way of minimising Draco’s effect on Tom’s life would be to help him heal as much as possible, Tom looked back at Harry, sighing.

“Master, maybe you can watch?” Harry frowned.

“Watch? Why?”

“So Draco can be sure that I’m not doing anything…untoward.” Honestly, Tom wasn’t sure whether having Harry pay attention might do anything, but he thought it was worth a try.

“Alright,” Harry agreed, still sounding slightly puzzled. Tom didn’t blame him: it wasn’t like Legilimency was a particularly good spectator’s sport – all they did was stare at each other, after all. Still, he saw how Draco relaxed infinitesimally, knowing that Tom wasn’t going to be left to have free rein over him. So, with Harry watching from the side-lines, Tom looked into Draco’s eyes and cast his mind out of his body.

The sea was very different this time. Instead of a whirlpool of conflicting currents that made traversing it without being hooked by a memory difficult, it was much calmer. The currents had more purpose, the memories were more ordered. It wasn’t back to the way Harry suspected it had been before the whole event, but he could see the shape Draco’s mind had taken.

Every mind was different, but what was a constant was that the best Occlumency involved movement to at least a certain degree. Tom’s own mind had the setting of a library with a whirl of documents swirling around like they were caught in eddies and gusts of wind. Memories which needed to be linked stayed relatively close, and his most important memories were shielded with others. In between were scattered traps: memories of pain and fear like flying knives hidden where an unwary intruder might stumble. Tom suspected that Draco had had similar traps once – most people did – but he probably wouldn’t be able to recreate them for a while yet.

Drifting closer to the work currently going on, Tom inspected the general movements. He had to admit that Draco was making rather impressive progress, considering the small amount of time it had been since his barriers had been shattered. Even as he watched, some anemone-like memories were brought into a spin, orbiting around another set of memories which were already swimming lazily in a fashion reminiscent of jellyfish.

Deciding he’d seen enough, he pulled out, sensing that his presence was both undesired and unhelpful from the ripples that spread out from him, making the closest memories jerk and tumble. Sighing, he settled himself back into his own mind, the after-images of his own mesmerising trails of flying papers imprinted on his retinae as he opened his eyes.

Draco’s eyes were still unfocused – he’d evidently decided to stay in his mind even as he felt Tom leave. Tom looked away from the empty grey eyes to meet his master’s curious gaze.

“So?” Harry asked expectantly. Tom took a moment to order his thoughts and then spoke.

“He’s doing surprisingly well,” he admitted. “I’d say at this point that he should be able to remember most of the most recent memories as well as his older ones. The memories created while in his previous master’s…care…however, might take a bit more time to organise as he will actually have to deal, at least in part, with the emotions they are soaked with.” Harry frowned at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the more emotional a moment, the more vivid the memory; the more difficult it is to move into place and keep it there. Memories and thoughts have a tendency to…interact with others, and the greater the emotion, the more likely it is that it will interact with those around. His older memories are fine – he’s already dealt with those. His most recent memories don’t have the same high emotions linked to them. As a result, they are relatively easy to pull into place and organise. The memories of his mistreatment, however…he’s probably going to have to spend a significant amount of time working through them.”

“So what do you think he’ll remember?” Harry asked. “Last night he tried to call me Potter, but this morning he acted like he remembered everything from our normal day-to-day life.” Tom shrugged slightly.

“It’s clear that during his imprisonment within his own mind, he nevertheless stayed aware of what was happening with his body, though I suspect the memories are…incomplete. It’s likely he remembers most of the last few weeks, but that the memories between his enslavement and now are blurred. They’ll probably come back to him as he works through the events during periods of meditation, but they might easily come out in flashbacks, nightmares or moments when he simply feels something without knowing _why_.” Looking back at Draco, Tom realised that at some point, he had emerged from his meditation and was watching and listening to their conversation. Harry followed his gaze and Draco flinched as his master made eye-contact, bowing his head so his eyes were downcast.

XXX

Harry almost sighed – while Tom’s words were heartening as they suggested that Draco actually had the potential to make a full recovery, it was still clear that there was a long road ahead of them, and not really that much time to do it in. It was almost the end of February, after all – it was about two months before the man would be released. How was he going to get the blond from this fearful, flinching thing back to someone who could manage daily life?

“How much of that were you aware of, Draco?” He asked patiently. Draco looked lost for a moment.

“When did you emerge from your meditation,” Tom clarified for him. Those grey eyes flicked towards him and then away again. The interaction gave Harry a sense of warmth – he’d almost forgotten; he didn’t have to do this alone. Tom would probably be _more_ helpful in guiding Draco to becoming a free man again – not only had he been in Draco’s head, but he actually had some knowledge of both Occlumency and psychology.

“I-I heard about potential flashbacks and nightmares, master,” Draco offered hesitantly. Harry nodded. He’d missed most of it, but never mind. Harry suddenly had a thought that if they’d had that conversation with Draco aware, it wouldn’t have been very kind of them – talking about him as if he hadn’t been there. Oh well, at least he _hadn’t_ been aware.

“How are your memories of being here?” Harry decided to ask. He didn’t want to touch the traumatic memories with a barge-pole, the memory of Draco’s breakdown that morning still imprinted on his mind. Draco looked almost thoughtful through his fear for a moment.

“I think I remember them, master,” he replied. Harry nodded slowly. He guessed it had probably been a pretty stupid question to ask: how could you remember whether you remembered something, after all. It brought to mind Neville’s Remembrall and how ridiculous it was for something to tell you that you’d forgotten something, but not _what_ you’d forgotten… Maybe a more specific question would be better.

“Do you remember me giving you the ground rules soon after your arrival?” Draco nodded tentatively.

“Yes, master.”

“OK, good. Now that you’re capable of discussing them, do you have any questions?” Draco looked a bit like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

“Master?” Oh, Harry hoped he’d get past the point of being constantly scared soon – the nervous tone to his every word grated on Harry’s nerves. Nevertheless, he did his best to push the emotion away, knowing it was unhelpful.

“Draco, I’d rather you ask a question now than cause a problem later, so please, if you have any questions…?” Maybe he’d let a bit too much of his irritation through there? Certainly, Draco recoiled slightly. Suddenly, Harry felt something soft bump his hand and something warm and heavy lean against his leg. Looking down in surprise, he met Tom’s red eyes and realised that the man had somehow moved back to his previous position without Harry noticing. Harry’s hand started stroking through his slave’s silky hair and he felt the knot of tension within him releasing at the familiar motion. Harry wondered why Tom had decided to move, but found himself glad that he had.

“Alright then,” he said after the silence had extended for a long few seconds. “If you don’t have any questions, I’ll just say this as an addition. I know you’re going to have trouble with some things, like you did with breakfast this morning, but I’d like you to try and overcome your conditioning. Things like using furniture when I’m not in the room; sitting at the table for mealtimes; speaking without needing permission. That sort of thing. You’re going to be going free in two months – if you can’t even feed yourself, it’s going to be difficult for you to adapt. Take the time you need, but keep trying, please.”

He thought for a moment and then felt a flash of amusement. “I suppose that if you are confused on anything, you can always either ask Tom or watch what he does. He’s got ‘toeing the line’ between compliance and independence down to a fine art,” he said with a chuckle, sharing his amusement with those warm red eyes. Overwhelmed by a wave of affection, he let his hand slide down to Tom’s neck where he stroked the man’s warm skin with his thumb.

Looking up, he realised Draco was watching them with a thoughtful look. He wondered at the picture they no doubt made – the ‘Saviour’ relaxing in a chair, a former dark lord sprawled against his leg, his hand on the man’s neck, a collar wrapped around his slave’s neck. Biting his lip, he wondered whether it was bad that the thought made him feel satisfied and…aroused. The last was definitely bad, he decided. Especially considering the discussion he and Tom had had. The first though…he decided that being satisfied with the situation wasn’t _that_ bad. Either way, perhaps it was proving to Draco that he didn’t have to worry about abuse here.

If he could have seen Tom’s gaze, he might have been more wary. Those red eyes bored into Draco’s grey ones, filled with warning, possessiveness and a dark threat for anyone who tried to encroach upon his territory.

XXX

By a few days into their new circumstances, they’d fallen into a rhythm without Harry there, one that was not all that dissimilar from what they’d been doing before he’d broken Draco out of his mind. He would clean for a large portion of the morning, Draco helping him, then he’d have an elongated lunch break where he would continue his research. Next, he would do a bit more cleaning before going outside for his daily wand usage in the garden. The only real difference was that instead of him leaving Draco in the living room where he would just kneel, staring blankly into space during his research and magic time, the blond would take himself off somewhere and do some meditation.

It was useful having his help while cleaning – it certainly meant they got more done. And since the blond didn’t need almost constant supervision any more, it was almost relaxing in comparison. The only thing that was a problem was how he constantly watched Tom whenever they were in the same room. He kept a permanently wary eye on the former dark lord and the scrutiny of his every action was making him itch. After a few days, it just got to be too much.

“Would you stop that!” he exclaimed finally, throwing down the cloth he’d been using to polish the table. Draco flinched and backed up a bit, his gaze even warier, if that was possible. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Tom told him with exasperation. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

“You-you _don’t_ want to h-hurt me?” Draco asked tentatively, still looking like he was about to run out of the room if Tom made a single step towards him. Tom, however, just snorted.

“Why _would_ I want to? It would just land me with a painful punishment, even thinking about it. Let alone if I actually did anything. No thanks – I’d rather not be incapacitated by pain today, if I can avoid it,” he said rather peevishly. Draco bit his lip, and for a while Tom thought he wasn’t going to answer any further. He’d actually picked up his cloth and had started spreading polish again by the time the blond said anything more.

“You’ve been in my m-memories. I-I _know_ you’ve seen…”

“That you were a traitor?” Tom asked him, flicking his eyes up. Draco recoiled from the fire burning in them, but nodded very slightly. Tom sighed, dropping the cloth again and turning to lean against a part that he hadn’t polished yet. “Yes. I know.”

“A-And you’re not… _angry_?” Draco asked, his voice sounding incredulous. Tom shrugged.

“In part, I suppose. I _hate_ traitors,” he admitted, a snarl on his face as he thought darkly about _Severus_. “But,” he continued, just as the blond looked like he really _would_ run, “I don’t really blame you. I wasn’t really worth following.” Dropping his eyes, he heard a shocked intake of air from across the room.

“My lord?” Draco said, sounding completely bemused.

“Don’t call me that,” Tom snapped, his eyes flashing up to capture those grey ones again. They were wide with shock. “What do you still see here of your ‘lord’?” he sneered. “Collared, bound, a slave as much as you are. More, perhaps as your sentence has an end and mine…doesn’t. No, Draco. Lord Voldemort is dead, as he _should_ be. Your lord doesn’t exist anymore, if he ever did. I know what you were expecting – a majestic leader of a group of brave freedom fighters. I know what your father told you from an early age, how he glorified his actions and those of his compatriots. And I know that you know he _lied_.” He almost found himself panting in anger, the disgust and revulsion at himself that had been building for _months_ finally reaching a tipping point.

And in his emotions he found something he wouldn’t have expected – forgiveness. Not for himself, not for the actions he had taken that had produced the stain on the world that was Lord Voldemort – he wasn’t sure if that _was_ forgivable – but for Draco. Draco had still been a boy when he had sworn his service to the Dark Lord; had been barely more than one when he had decided that the service wasn’t worthy of him. Tom could forgive him for his betrayal when frankly, he would have betrayed _himself_ if it was possible.

Nevertheless, for all that he was finding a new capacity to forgive which he’d never thought could exist within him, he didn’t forgive _Severus_. He couldn’t – _Severus_ had been closer to him, had benefited more greatly from him, and had still turned around and betrayed his most precious secrets to those who would destroy him. Draco had been nothing more than a pawn from the start: a way to hurt his failure of a father. _Severus_ …he had been a protégé, someone the little bit of Tom still left in Lord Voldemort had recognised as a kindred spirit. He had _trusted_ the man. Had offered him a reward for his loyal service; had done his best to fulfil his promise, as ridiculous as he’d considered it. If Bellatrix had betrayed him, it would hardly have been more hurtful. And that was what it was – hurtful. All his anger, all his fury…it had been because he hadn’t been able to recognise the hurt that really lay behind it. That hurt was still there, and it was why he still couldn’t forgive the man.

But, what he was also starting to realise was that…as much as he hated _Severus_ , as much as he loathed his very existence…he hated himself more. He hated who he’d become. He’d decided that Lord Voldemort would never rise again before Draco had arrived, but through the blond’s memories he’d come to truly _despise_ the snake-faced, anger-eaten shell of the man he had become, hollowed out inside except for the hate, anger and desire for revenge and control which drove him on. Nothing of his genius, his charisma, his _self_ -control had existed; it had all been torn apart along with his soul. So being called ‘my lord’, a title which had only ever been used with that ruined shell of himself…no. Never again.

No, he was Tom. He was Harry’s slave. And that was all until the day he removed the collar, and then he wouldn’t even be those anymore. Tom looked back at Draco, coming out of his musings to see those grey eyes gazing at him. They were still fearful, but there was now a hint of thoughtfulness.

“Just…Just call me Tom,” he finished, hoping his voice didn’t sound as lost to Draco as it did to him. “It’s who I am now, I suppose.” Draco nodded slowly.

“Yes, Tom,” he acknowledged, and Tom both mourned and was glad that his voice had lost that deferential edge which it had had until now. They both turned back to their respective tasks without a word, but the silence between them was easier. Tom was also glad to note that Draco’s gaze had lost some of the wariness it had been holding, and his glances came less often.

XXX

One evening, early in March, Hermione came over for dinner and a discussion about how to change the regulations so that slaves were not so much at risk of being abused. Unlike the awkward dinner with Snape and Kingsley, this time they ate in the kitchen as normal. Tom had been warned ahead of time so he’d prepared enough pasta for four people. Harry waited in the sitting room until she arrived.

“Ah, Harry,” Hermione greeted him, stepping through the flames. “Sorry I’m late.” Harry rolled his eyes. Only Hermione would be five minutes earlier than the time arranged and consider herself _late_.

“You’re not,” he told her with a half-smile on his face. “Shall we?” he asked, indicating the door. She smiled at him and walked through energetically, almost bouncing. Harry raised his eyebrows at her back, wondering why she was so excited. When she walked down the steps and saw Draco kneeling in his usual spot, however, she whirled around and glared at Harry, all excitement gone from her face.

“Harry?” she asked, a warning note in her voice. Harry put up his hand before she could ask the question she no doubt wanted to throw at him. Taking out his wand, he cast a quick _muffliato_ before looking at her expectantly – he didn’t want Draco to hear the conversation. “Why exactly is Malfoy _kneeling_ by your chair? You don’t expect him to eat down there, surely!” Harry looked back at her, his own face blank.

“Hermione, what do you think of me?” he asked levelly. “That on the one hand I would condemn abuse in the slaves of others but perpetrate it among my own?” She gestured impatiently.

“You know I don’t think that of you, Harry,” she told with affront.

“Then why ask the question in such a way? As an accusation.” She crossed her arms and looked away, silent. “Perhaps you fear that I am being corrupted by my power over them,” he suggested, knowingly. She flicked her eyes towards and then away from him, sighing and letting her arms fall limp to her sides.

“I suppose,” she admitted. “I guess there was a part of me that worried about that, yes. The Harry Potter I know wouldn’t be like that, but…”

“But I might have become a Harry Potter you _didn’t_ know,” he completed. She gave a single nod, still looking away. Harry nodded slowly in response. “I guess that’s fair enough to fear, but I would hope that all our years of friendship at least mean that you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt.” He raised his eyebrows as she looked back at him, the glimmer of a smile touching her lips.

“I suppose,” she said again, but this time her tone was a lot different. “Alright then, why is Malfoy kneeling by your chair?” Harry shrugged.

“Because he can’t sit at the table.”

“ _Harry_!” she said, shocked. He shot a sharp look at her.

“What did I just say about assumptions, Hermione?” he asked, an annoyed tone in his voice. She searched his eyes for a moment and then huffed.

“ _Fine_. _Why_ can’t he sit at the table?”

“Because his previous master traumatised him enough that he physically can’t force himself to use furniture.” Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Tom mentioned at one point that he’d seen memories of the man ordering him to sit on a chair and then when he complied, using the punishment function of the collar on him until he begged for mercy, or just beating the hell out of him, until finally he simply _couldn’t_ sit down, no matter how much the collar punished him.” Hermione looked at him, horrified.

“That’s…that’s _sick_ ,” she choked out, sounding physically nauseous. Harry nodded grimly.

“So you see why feeling that you’re classing me in the same category as abusers like him…upsets me a bit,” he asked pointedly. When he saw she’d got the message by the slightly ashamed look on her face, he sighed again. “Frankly, I’m just happy I don’t have to hand-feed him anymore,” he admitted.

“Hand…Oh, Harry!” Hermione said with a half-horrified, half-amused sound to her voice. “That must have been…awkward.” Harry grimaced at her.

“That’s an understatement if ever I’ve heard one,” he commented. “More for me than for him, actually, apart from the past couple of weeks when he’s been cognisant enough to _want_ to feed himself, but just be unable to do it. Fortunately, he managed to break through _that_ barrier a couple of days ago, so…”

“He’s made good progress, then?” Hermione asked. Harry shrugged.

“According to Tom it’s pretty remarkable how quickly he’s recovered from having his mental shields shattered.” Hermione frowned at him.

“Mental shields shattered?” Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise before remembering that the last time they’d had a proper conversation had been before Tom had started the Legilimency. Merlin, had it been almost a month? Counting up the time, he realised that yes, it had. There was so much going on in his life at the moment – the Aurors, Hogwarts, Draco, Tom…he’d practically been a recluse lately, he realised. Explaining to Hermione what had happened after they had visited and given him some advice, he finished with a summary of what had changed with Draco since the mental shields had shattered.

“So it’s still definitely a work in progress, but it’s coming along,” he ended. Hermione nodded slowly.

“I suppose it might be too much to push him to sit at the table, then,” she said thoughtfully. Harry shrugged.

“Pretty much. Draco knows I want him to do his best to overcome his conditioning, and I’m pretty sure _he_ wants to overcome it too, so we’re going at his pace, really.” Then, looking at her sharply, he continued. “Actually, that’s something I wanted to mention to you. Given how you almost jumped down my throat at seeing Draco kneeling, I just want to warn you that I’m likely to say things you don’t agree with when we discuss the regulations. I’d really rather you don’t immediately jump to the conclusion that I’m saying the things because I’m a slave-owner, OK?” Hermione huffed but eventually conceded the point.

“Fine, I’ll try,” she promised. Harry smiled at her and then gestured for her to enter the kitchen since she was ahead of him on the stairs. Perfect timing – Tom was dishing up the steamed broccoli with the creamy Chicken Alfredo pasta. Harry and Hermione both sat down and they all started tucking in with great enthusiasm.

“Wow, Tom,” Hermione said after a few bites. “This is _really_ good.”

“Thank you,” Tom replied neutrally.

“He’s had a lot of practice,” Harry added, sending a mischievous grin at Tom when he glared half-heartedly at the comment.

“I guess,” Hermione responded absently. “So, what I was thinking was that-” Harry interrupted her.

“No business at the table, please. We’ll do that afterwards.” Hermione frowned at him.

“Why can’t we start now? The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.” Harry just raised his eyebrows at her.

“How many times did you forget to eat at Hogwarts because you were too interested in a book? No way are we wasting good food by getting distracted with business. Besides, Tom’s just as bad. There’s a reason he’s not allowed to read at the table,” he added as an afterthought. The man in question made an affronted noise, so Harry shot him a look. “How many times have you missed lunch because you were in the library?” he asked. Tom just looked away.

“It wasn’t _that_ many times,” he protested. “I eat lunch more often than not.” He then winced and rubbed at his neck.

“Apparently not,” Harry remarked, with an amused look, guessing that Tom had accidentally lied since the punishment had clearly only been a quick jolt. His slave quickly turned back to his meal without saying anything more. Harry grinned in victory – the lack of argument showing that he conceded the point more obviously than almost anything else would have. After a bit of silence, Harry tried to think of a conversation topic which wouldn’t be likely to lead to any bad memories from the war, slavery, or generally politically sensitive areas. It was harder than he might have thought. Then, an idea occurred.

“Hey, Hermione – you took Arithmancy to NEWT level, didn’t you?” Hermione looked at him quizzically.

“Yes…I thought you knew this?” Harry shrugged.

“Yeah, but I thought you might like to know that Tom’s also really interested in Arithmancy.” The red-eyed man jolted slightly, choking for a moment. “Something gone down the wrong way, Tom?” Harry asked in concern. Tom waved away his question with a hand.

“I’m fine, master,” he said, his voice sounding slightly hoarse. Harry suspected he knew why the question had come as a shock – he still didn’t think Tom had figured out that he knew about the research, and Harry intended it to stay that way. Fortunately, the prompt got Tom and Hermione swapping thoughts about Arithmancy, eventually engaging in a full-blown debate over some point or other. Even Draco got involved at a couple of points – Harry had forgotten that he had taken Arithmancy at school. And Harry? Harry just enjoyed sitting back and watching the people in his life getting on with each other.

XXX

Dinner had been…tolerable, Tom supposed. His Chicken Alfredo had turned out quite well, although he felt that maybe he’d been a little heavy with the cream – it was meant to be rich, but maybe it had been _too_ rich… It had been passable, however. Much like the conversation. Tom hadn’t missed how Harry had prompted a conversation that really, he wouldn’t be able to add much to, and the reason for it still confused him.

Why would Harry do that and then sit there with a little smug smile on his face as his friend and his slave debated esoteric points about Magical Theory that he almost definitely couldn’t understand? Was it because he didn’t like the silence? Or some misplaced desire to make his friend and his slave get along? Tom really couldn’t fathom it. There had been another positive effect though: Tom had actually been surprised that Draco had been able to pluck up the courage to contribute, but he had – it was a good sign, he decided.

Finishing the meal, Harry, his friend and Tom relocated to the sitting room. That was one good thing about having Draco around and actually properly conscious, Tom decided: he didn’t have to clean up after the meal. Harry and his friend sat in two of the armchairs near the fire, almost facing each other. Tom hovered, not sure whether his master wanted him kneeling or standing near him. In the end, it turned out to be neither of those two options.

“Sit in a chair, Tom,” Harry directed him. As soon as he obeyed, Harry continued. “Hermione thinks you might have an interesting perspective on what regulations should be proposed; I agree. You know both the Death Eaters who are likely to be the most recalcitrant and know what it’s like to be under the collar’s rule. Plus, you’ve got a better idea of politics than I have; maybe than both of us.” Tom had to agree with all of the things he’d said so far… Harry was starting to gain more of an idea about what to say and when to say it, but he had a long way to go to reach the level of a Slytherin who’d spent his whole life at Hogwarts in ‘training’.

“As you wish, master,” he agreed obediently. Harry nodded decisively.

“So, you’re free to speak whenever and with whatever you think. Just be respectful about it, OK?” He looked at his friend. “Do you have any requests about what he calls you?” She shrugged.

“Hermione or Miss Granger will do, I guess,” she requested. Harry turned back to Tom.

“There you are. Any questions?” Tom shook his head.

“It’s clear, master. Thank you.”

“Good. So. Hermione, where do you want to start?” She tucked her bushy hair behind her ear and pulled out a notepad from her purse along with a quill. Tom guessed it must be self-inking since she didn’t seem to have a bottle of ink.

“I was thinking we could start with the collar’s basic rules. Some of them are ridiculously strict! Kneeling all the time, not being allowed to _eat_ or _drink_ without permission…not being allowed to _speak…_ ” Harry and Tom exchanged a look.

“Miss Granger,” Tom said politely, “May I suggest that we start with something easier to enforce?” Politeness came to him a lot easier than he thought it might. Things had definitely changed since that time he had been unable to force himself to kneel in front of this woman and her paramour. Why? Was it the different situation – that instead of being treated like the slave he was, he was being given permission to sit at the table and speak as equals, contingent on his politeness? Or was it that _he_ had changed…? The witch frowned at him.

“What do you mean? Surely it would be better to start with the basics?” Harry leaned forwards, his eyes intent.

“I think I see what Tom means. The basic rules encoded into the collar are automatic whenever the slave is transferred from one master to another; any changes are annulled. Thus, we would have to enforce that every slave-owner both changes the rules to our satisfaction and that they don’t change the rules back as soon as we leave.”

“An additional complication,” Tom started, once his master had seemed to finish, “is that there is no way of knowing whether this has taken place.” The witch frowned again.

“Couldn’t we just send someone around on a regular basis and ask the slave?” Tom just stared at her – even Harry hadn’t been that naïve. Fortunately, Harry decided to answer as Tom wasn’t sure he’d have been able to be polite in the face of such thoughtlessness.

“Hermione, why do you think slaves’ testimony isn’t admissible in court?” She stared at the fire in thought for a moment and then looked back at them.

“I suppose because they think that the masters might order them to lie.” Harry nodded.

“Exactly. So why do you think this would be any different?” She looked mutinous.

“But if we require the masters to order their slaves to answer honestly…” Harry shook his head even as she spoke.

“It wouldn’t work. Who’s to say that the master hadn’t previously instructed his or her slave to lie when ordered to speak honestly?” Hermione gaped slightly at him.

“You can _do_ that?” she asked in surprise. Harry shrugged.

“The enchantment powering the collar is semi-sentient and becomes more and more able to distinguish the true intent behind the master’s words as time goes on. For example…” he turned to Tom, “Tom, stand up,” he said, but there was no force behind it. Tom stayed sitting, sensing what his master was trying to prove. The collar didn’t react. “OK, now, Tom, stand up,” he ordered, this time with a note of steel. Waiting until the collar reacted, Tom quickly stood up with a slightly-exaggerated wince as soon as he felt the first prickle of pain. “You see,” Harry continued, looking at Hermione. “You can sit down now, Tom,” he threw over absently. Tom settled back into his seat. He didn’t _like_ being used as a demonstration tool, but on the other hand…Granger seemed like the kind of person to not believe something unless she had seen it for herself. Certainly, she seemed convinced now.

“I see. So a master ordering his or her slave to answer honestly in the presence of a Ministry representative wouldn’t necessarily mean anything,” she mused thoughtfully. “Is that what you did?” she asked with a sharp note in her voice.

“Come again?” Harry asked with a confused frown.

“With the reporter. The article said that Tom talked about ‘seeing the error of his ways’ after being ordered to answer honestly. But if you could actually order him to lie beforehand…”

“Oh,” Harry replied with a shrug. “No, that was actually honest.” Tom suddenly found himself the subject of a scrutinising look. He tried not to fidget, his pride rising in protest at the thought of being _examined_ by someone other than his master. Fortunately, the witch soon flicked her eyes back to Harry who continued speaking. “Tom actually has a standing order to be honest with me, but I’m sure he’s found ways of getting around that when it suits him.” Once more, Tom tried not to fidget, though this time out of guilt because he _had_. Mostly through omission, since outright lies were worse than pointless, but… He refused to meet Harry’s gaze, worrying that Harry would be able to read exactly what he was keeping from him in his eyes, despite not having a lick of skill in Legilimency. Of course, avoiding his gaze must make him look _more_ guilty… Finally, that heavy gaze moved back to Granger.

“Alright then, where do _you_ suggest we start?” Harry shrugged again, looking at Tom.

“I don’t know – what do you think?” Now the subject of _two_ gazes, his master’s feeling so much more insightful than the woman’s, he tried to get his thoughts in order.

“How about we start with the most important changes first.”

“Like with Draco,” Harry commented. Tom nodded.

“Yes. So what are the aspects of slavery that are completely intolerable and need to be changed urgently?” Granger made a helpless gesture.

“I don’t know – they’re _all_ intolerable. _Slavery_ is intolerable. I wish we could just get rid of it completely.” Harry opened his mouth to speak, but she waved him down. “I know, I know. Kingsley told me. It’s not possible.” She looked mulish at the thought.

“I know, Hermione, I know,” Harry said, surprisingly affectionately. “You’ve always fought for the rights of the oppressed. But Tom has a point. And there’s another things I don’t think you’re considering. Heck, it’s something _I_ didn’t consider until Tom raised it in the context of the article. Why do you think I said things during the article that didn’t outright condemn slavery and might, in a certain light, be seen as _pro_ -slavery?” Tom saw how her eyes slid away from her friend, and the way that made a realisation dawn on his master’s face. “You thought I actually _believed_ them.”

He sounded…hurt. The sound made a lump rise in Tom’s throat and anger fill him at the thoughtless _mudblood_ who had caused it. Glaring at the woman, his eyes were drawn by the smallest of flicks from Harry’s fingers. Looking at his master, he saw the man give an almost imperceptible shake of his head and so Tom just sat back in his chair, his arms crossed, glaring at the table instead. He didn’t know why Harry’s emotion had affected him so much, but it had, and he didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Granger said. At least she did sound properly remorseful, Tom granted her. “I promised to try and I will. It’s just…”

“I know,” Harry replied tiredly. “I know, Hermione. But it’s that kind of thing that we need to work on. What I was trying to say was that Tom and I carefully constructed some ideas for what to say to be either appealing to or at least not immediately offensive for people who are currently masters of slaves.”

“But _why_?” Hermione asked in frustration. “Why do we need to pander to _abusers_?”

“Because it’s them who will make or break this campaign,” Tom interjected quietly but forcefully, running out of patience with this woman and her inability to understand reality. She shut up, looking at him with wide eyes. He realised he’d leant forwards in his intensity and forced himself to lean back. Her mouth moved wordlessly for a moment before she managed to use her voice.

“What-what do you mean?”

“I mean,” started Tom in a less forceful tone, now that she was listening, “that if we are going to have any success in enforcing change, the majority of the current slave owners must both see its purpose and agree with it, at least to a certain point.”

“Why?” Tom felt frustration rise in him – Harry hadn’t been this dense; he thought this woman was meant to be _intelligent_. Fortunately, Harry decided to explain.

“Look, Hermione. Just think about it. Imagine a situation where every slave-owner refuses to follow the new regulations. How do you expect to enforce them? How to you expect to stop rape, to stop abuse?” She crossed her arms and looked mulishly back at him.

“By regular inspections which-“

“Which do what? Ask slaves questions which they have been ordered to answer dishonestly?”

“No! Use scans, that collar probe I’ve read about, to find out if the slave has been abused.” Harry shook his head.

“It won’t work. The probe only detects usage of the _collar_ , nothing else. And it’s expected that the collar _will_ be used – that’s the whole point of it, after all. As for magical scans, don’t forget we’re in a magical world with magical healing. Think about Tom – after that blasting curse hit him, his back was practically _flayed_. I could see his _spine_ and _ribs_ from the back. But two days later, he was healed better than before, probably to a point which it would require an in-depth scan to detect the original injury.” Granger sent Tom a horrified look at the description of his injuries, to which he offered an unimpressed one. He still hadn’t forgiven the woman for assuming that his master was like one of those _other_ masters. Harry continued. “Yes, most masters probably don’t bother to do more than cursory healing at the moment – it costs too much and is too much effort for them, but that’s not to say they _couldn’t_. So, how do you enforce the rules on every single slave owner? All five hundred or so of them.” There was a pause as they both looked at the witch.

“I…I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “I hadn’t really thought that far.”

“And that’s precisely my point,” Harry finished gently. “You get so passionate about these things, and that’s great, but it makes you not think about how to implement them. Think about the house-elves at Hogwarts. It was laudable that you wanted to help them, and I know I wasn’t as supportive as I should have been. Sorry for that,” he apologised with real remorse in his voice. “But what did your efforts actually gain? You knitted a whole load of hats and socks which Dobby-“ he broke off for a moment, pain flashing across his face. Tom remembered that Dobby was the name of a house-elf his master had been close with. Remembering with his own surge of guilt another comment he had had thrown at him, he recalled that one or more of his Death Eaters had been responsible for the elf’s death. Harry swallowed noisily. “Which Dobby collected, because the other elves refused to clean the Gryffindor common room after they kept finding them hidden under piles of rubbish.”

“I know that, Harry,” Granger said, her voice sounding like a mixture of belligerent and ashamed. It was an interesting combination. Harry pinned her with his emerald gaze; Tom knew what that felt like and didn’t envy her.

“So, it’s the same here. The method didn’t work with the house-elves because it was too much, too soon. We don’t want to risk failing before we even start because we are too hasty, too progressive. So, let’s think about the most important things and go from there, OK?” Finally, the light seemed to be dawning. At last. Tom heaved a silent sigh of relief as it appeared that they might be able to some progress that evening.

“Alright then, Harry. Let’s start with the kind of thing that happened to Draco…”

XXX

It was inevitable, Tom supposed. With Draco and him being in such close quarters, despite the size of the house, it was not really a question of _if_ Draco would become curious and look at what he was doing for all that time in the library, and more a question of _when_. So when Draco approached him in the library one day as he was continuing his research, he shouldn’t have been as surprised and angry as he was.

He’d been aware of the blond entering, but had paid little attention to what he was doing, so when he realised Draco was examining his notes, he had to fight the urge to cover them and snarl at him. That would no doubt pique the irritant’s curiosity further. Besides, how would the other slave know what he was doing…?”

“Is that an Arithmantic diagram of the collar?” he asked. Tom was so shocked that he had an idea of what this whole thing was about, that his mouth just worked soundlessly for a moment.

“What are you _talking_ about?” he tried to deny, but knew it was weak; his shock having revealed far too much. Draco nodded at the notes he’d made.

“I took Arithmancy at school. I recognise enough to know what you’re doing,” Draco explained, his eyes wary as Tom’s expression darkened. Oh. Yes, now Tom recalled that the other slave had been able to contribute to the discussion he had had with Granger. For some reason, he hadn’t connected the dots. Now knowing that there was no point in denial, he stood and walked out from behind his desk, intentionally emanating dark intent. Draco backed away until he felt a bookshelf at his back.

“Well, if you know what’s good for you, you won’t breathe a word of this to Harry,” Tom threatened darkly, placing one hand to one side of Draco’s head, pinning him in. The blond went pale.

“I th-thought you s-said you weren’t a-allowed to h-hurt m-me,” Draco pointed out, referring back to their conversation a while ago. Tom sighed. He had, hadn’t he?

“Maybe not, but I can certainly do things to make the rest of your stay here…unpleasant.” Draco swallowed nervously.

“B-but why are y-you doing this? If-if M-master finds out h-he’ll be really _angry_ a-at you,” Draco pointed out, the possibility seeming to be even more frightening than Tom’s threat. He stuttered and stumbled, fear making him tremble, but some inner spine keeping him going. Tom forced an unconcerned laugh.

“How’s he going to find out? _You_? If I tell him you’re lying, who do you think he’d believe? You, his schoolyard rival who’s only really been consciously around for a few weeks or me, the slave who’s been here for _months_?” Draco looked away, his fingers twisting. Tom stared at him for a few minutes before huffing in victory. “That’s what I thought,” he said, guilt and satisfaction curdling together in his gut. He’d been living with a Gryffindor for too long, he decided, when the idea of taking advantage of someone’s weaknesses seemed _wrong_ instead of just the most efficient way of doing things…

“But _why_ a-are you doing research on the c-collar?” Draco asked persistently, despite his obvious fear. Tom was at the same time impressed by his temerity, and furious at his daring. “Wh-why not just w-wait to be fr-free?” Tom growled in frustration, pulling his arm away and stalking back towards his desk. At the edge, he leant forwards, his back towards the blond.

“Because if I don’t find a way out, I will never _be_ free,” he answered quietly, a hint of despair creeping into his voice.

“What?” Draco asked, surprise in his voice. Tom stood up abruptly and stalked towards him again, ignoring his violent flinch backwards.

“Look at this,” he ordered harshly, pointing at his neck. “Look at the symbol on my collar. Does that look like a number to you?” He couldn’t believe that Draco had never noticed the symbol before. Or made the connection when he had said in their previous discussion about his sentence not having an end. Sure, it wasn’t massively _obvious_ – the number was perhaps the size of his thumb-nail – but Draco had been sitting opposite him for long periods of time for _weeks_. Not to mention all the other times they’d been in close proximity. Surely at some point he would have seen it. Apparently not, as the man focused on his collar and his eyes went wide with shock.

“An eternity symbol,” he breathed. He then looked at Tom and the dark-haired slave was disconcerted to see something that looked remarkably, and annoyingly, like _pity._

“Yes,” Tom replied eventually. “So forgive me if I don’t try your method of ‘wait until I’m free’,” he sneered. “Now, get out,” he ordered, his red eyes promising bad consequences if the blond disobeyed him, regardless of whether he technically had authority over the other slave or not. Frankly, if Draco stayed in the room a minute longer, or – Merlin forbid – dared to express any sort of _pity_ , he decided he would not be responsible for his actions. And if the collar punished him for them? So be it.

Fortunately, Draco seemed to read something of the sort on his face, because he quickly skedaddled, disappearing from the room within a few seconds. Left to his peace, Tom returned to his desk and continued his work, his fervour merely increased.

XXX

Harry was staring at his essay blankly, his quill flicking in his fingers as he thought. Contrary to all appearances, he wasn’t thinking about his work. No, instead he was thinking about Draco and the rapidly approaching date for his release. It was now mid-March and he was due to be released in just over a month. He was making progress, it was true; slow progress. But it wasn’t that Harry was concerned about, not really. He knew they were all doing what they could for that. No, it was the question of what Draco would do to support himself.

At this time, Harry didn’t think there was anything to support the slaves when they finished their sentences – nothing to help ease them back into work. The problem was compounded by the fact that most of the slaves would be leaving with absolutely nothing to their name; potentially not even clothes on their back, if their master decided to be spiteful. The Malfoy accounts, for example, were no doubt completely emptied in May 1999, paid out to a number of people, Harry included. With all the members of the family either marked Death Eaters or, in the case of Narcissa, a supporter, it was very unlikely that there would be anything in terms of either property or possessions: all having been sold to pay off their debt to society.

Perhaps for people who had already had a career, it wouldn’t be terrible – it might be difficult to get back into their previous jobs, but they already had the experience so their time as slaves might not stand too much against them. For people like Draco, however? Once again, it was those who had probably had some of the least effect of any on the war, who were going to suffer the most. Harry gritted his teeth in frustration at the injustice. They’d have to do something about that too, he decided, making a mental note to raise it with Hermione. If nothing was done, the former slaves would probably end up on the streets or taken advantage of by the dross of their society. Harry honestly shuddered to think of what might happen to vulnerable individuals who had been conditioned into not being able to stand up for themselves.

Still, there was something he could do for now for Draco, at least. Since the blond wasn’t in the same room as him, and he couldn’t be bothered to go searching for him, he just leant back in his chair and called Draco’s name at a normal volume, but with a firm note in it. About two minutes later, Draco almost ran into the room, collapsing to his knees a few paces in front of Harry, bowing so low his head almost touched the ground.

I’m s-sorry, mas-master,” he stuttered. Harry frowned as he realised the slave was trembling violently.

“Why are you so scared, Draco,” Harry asked gently. “I just want to talk to you, that’s all.” There was a pause when Harry thought the blond wouldn’t actually answer, but then he broke it.

“Mas-my pr-previous mast-master…h-he only u-used to c-call me wh-when he w-wanted to p-punish me.” Harry let out a slight ‘ah’ of comprehension. If Draco had only ever been summoned when he was about to be severely hurt, it made sense that he would be so skittish about it now.

“Well, I’m not going to punish you,” he said firmly. “So why don’t you sit up and take a few deep breaths, alright?” Draco obeyed and slowly, his trembling subsided and his eyes rose until they were fixed somewhere on Harry’s chest. Harry figured that was as good as they were going to get at the moment. “OK, good,” he said finally. “I was thinking about what is going to happen once you’re released. Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do for money?” Draco looked frozen, not even breathing. Harry was getting concerned when he finally took in a shuddering breath.

“Not really, master,” came the quiet response.

“You know that you don’t have any Malfoy Manor to go back to, right?” Harry checked, not sure what he might or might not know about that – Tom had seemed to know that his own accounts had been emptied but…

“Yes, master,” Draco replied, then hesitated before continuing. “They…the Ministry told us before we were s-sold.” Harry nodded. He supposed that made sense – he could imagine someone gloating that the slaves might even be bought with their own money.

“So, you’re going to have to get a job of some sort. Any ideas?” Draco was silent. “Well, what were you thinking about doing before this whole thing?” The blond was silent for a bit longer, but just as Harry was opening his mouth to offer some suggestions, he responded.

“I…I don’t know. Estate management, probably. But…” he hesitated for a moment. “I always enjoyed potions, you were right about that, master. Maybe…maybe I would have chosen to get a mastery…”

“So why not do that now?” asked Harry, seizing on the suggestion with enthusiasm. Draco looked away, his hands starting to tremble again.

“Potions masteries cost…a lot, master. I have an Outstanding in my Potions NEWT, but…I was a Death Eater…No self-respecting Potions Master would take me on, even if I could pay.” Harry leant back in his chair, frowning in thought and steepling his fingers.

“I have two suggestions,” he said eventually. “First of all, Kingsley is Snape’s master – as a Potions Master, he might be willing to take you on since he’s in the same situation as you. However, since he’ll still be a slave for a more than a year, that might complicate your apprenticeship. How long are Potions apprenticeships, usually?” he asked, realising he didn’t actually know.

“Two to four years, master.” He hesitated. “As long as the Ministry recognises that he remains a Potions Master, despite his slave status, it should be fine, master,” he offered. “But he would still rightly expect to be compensated for his teaching,” he pointed out, then got a frightened look on his face at the realisation that he’d argued with his master. Harry decided that it would be best to just ignore the reaction – he was starting to realise that Harry wouldn’t punish him for his opinions, but there was still a way to go.

“Hmm, OK. Tell you what – I’ll speak to Kingsley about it; see what he thinks. If he thinks it’s possible, I’ll try to see if you can maybe start before your release date.” Suddenly he realised that Draco was actually staring at him, his eyes meeting Harry’s gaze for the first time that Harry could remember since he’d arrived. Realising that they had made eye contact, the blond quickly looked down towards the floor.

“I’m sorry, master!” he apologised quickly, his tone fearful. Harry just gave him a half-smile which he probably couldn’t see given where his eyes were looking.

“No worries – I’m perfectly fine with you making eye-contact. Did you want to say something about my suggestion?” Draco hesitated, his fingers trembling.

“Master, I…I appreciate your concern for me, I really do,” he hurried to reassure Harry. “It’s just…I don’t have any money. Even if Professor Snape agreed to take me on, how would I _pay_ for it?” Harry paused – he had a point… Then he realised he had a very easy solution for that.

“Don’t worry about it. I could give you the money, or maybe loan it to you. You could pay it back to me once you had a job.” Draco looked shocked speechless.

“Master, I…thank you, _thank you_!” he sounded so grateful, Harry was almost embarrassed on his behalf – for Merlin’s sake, he sounded on the edge of tears! When Draco crawled closer and looked like he was about to do something drastic, like kiss his feet or try to suck his dick again, Harry quickly twisted back to his desk.

“OK, great, I’m glad we got that sorted,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll speak to Kingsley and get back to you later about it, alright?” Picking up his abandoned quill, he pretended to be occupied, hoping that Draco would get the message and just go. He didn’t. Instead, Harry heard the sound of fabric moving and then silence. Sighing, he put the quill down and looked back at Draco, seeing him waiting patiently, his eyes on Harry’s legs. “You can just go, you know,” he said with a slightly impatient tone in his voice. “You don’t have to wait until I dismiss you.”

“Yes, master,” Draco replied obediently without moving. Harry sighed again.

“Alright, what is it, then?” The blond looked nervous, darting a look at the door as if to ensure it was empty.

“Master…it’s about _Tom_ ,” he confessed, his eyes once more on the door as if expecting the mention of his name to summon the man himself. Seeing his agitation, Harry withdrew his wand and cast a silencing barrier around them, ignoring Draco’s flinch.

“Go on,” he said steadily, his heart sinking into his stomach as his mind ran through situations, each one worse than the previous, that Tom might be getting himself into without supervision.

“He’s…” Draco’s mouth worked as he clearly tried to summon up the courage to say whatever it was Tom had done. Harry tried to control his impatience – getting irritated with the traumatised slave would probably just make it take even _longer_. “He’s researching the collar.” Finally, the words came out in a rush, almost like a dam had broken. “He’s trying to find a way to get free.” Then, closing his eyes, Draco seemed to brace himself for a blow. Harry felt almost light at the relief that erupted in him at the ‘revelation’. He laughed, the sound making Draco look at him, a slight crease of confusion between his brows. “Master?” he asked.

“ _That’s_ all?” Harry responded, still chuckling slightly. “Draco, I’ve known about that for _months_.” That crease was definitely there, and deepening further as the blond’s confusion increased.

“But master, he told me not to tell you, threatened me, in fact,” he objected, his bewilderment making him brave. Harry stopped chuckling abruptly and fixed him with a sharp gaze.

“He threatened you? What did he say?” Draco looked away for a moment, then his gaze flickered back to Harry’s chest.

“He…he just said that he could make my life unpleasant, that’s all,” he murmured eventually. “He said that there was no point in telling you – he would just deny it and you would believe him over me.” Harry chuckled again, though there was a rueful note to it this time.

“Draco, he was bluffing. If he ever does anything to you that you think is unjustified, I expect you to tell me about it. And about me not believing you and him denying it? He has a standing order to be honest to me.” Then, suddenly realising he’d never done that with Draco, he decided to fix that little hole in the logic. “Actually, I’m going to do the same with you. Draco,” he started, in a firmer voice than he’d been using for most of that conversation, “never lie to me. I expect you to always tell me the complete and honest truth. Understood?”

“Yes, master,” Draco said, and there was a note of relief in his voice.

“There,” Harry told him with satisfaction. “Now you know that if you come and talk to me about any problems with Tom, I’ll believe you because if you lie to me, you’ll experience all too obvious pain from the collar. Just as would happen if Tom tried to deny something that happened. Better?” Draco nodded.

“Yes, master. Thank you, master.” Then, hesitating once more, he looked like he wanted to continue. Harry waited patiently for him to gather his courage. “Master… _why_ are you letting him research the collar? And why doesn’t he know that you know?” Harry sighed, looking at the fire blankly. He should have guessed those would be the questions Draco asked.

“Why am I letting him continue his research? Frankly, because I think that it both won’t succeed and is necessary for him.” Seeing Draco’s curious gaze, he expanded. “The collar’s enchantment was created by Lady Magic – I researched it and while there are similarities between the collars used by the Ministry in previous times and these ones, there is one important difference. In the past, the collars were locked on with a special key that was kept under close guard in the Ministry; the lengths of individual slaves’ sentences would be tracked by the Department of Corrections, and the master would be required to bring the slave in on a specific day for the collar to be unlocked. They didn’t have the numbers on the front that these collars do, nor did they unlock automatically when the time reached zero. And honestly? What Lady Magic wrought, I don’t think _anyone_ will be able to undo. Not even Tom.

“However,” he carried on, seeing the understanding in those grey eyes, “I think that Tom will never accept that until he fails. So, that’s why he doesn’t know, because if he knew I knew, he might think that I was sabotaging his efforts in some way. Or he might think that because I knew, the collar wasn’t responding as it should.” Harry fixed Draco with an intent look. “So I forbid you to tell him that I know. Let him believe that you were cowed by his threat, that you have kept your silence.”

“Yes, master,” Draco responded immediately. “Master…what if he…succeeds?” Harry pursed his lips slightly, then shrugged.

“Forewarned is forearmed, right? Don’t forget that he’s changed, just as you’ve changed from what you once were. Even if he _was_ able to overcome all the conditioning of the last seven months, I doubt we’d see Lord Voldemort again. And I rather think that if it came to a fight, I’d have an advantage over him because he _has_ undergone conditioning by means of the collar, even if it wasn’t as thorough or obvious as what happened to you.” Draco flinched at the reminders, looking down for a few moments.

“Thank you for explaining, master,” he finally said, his eyes flicking back up to Harry’s chest. Harry shrugged.

“No problem. Just remember – mum’s the word, OK?” Turning back to his work, he cast a glance at the kneeling slave. “Was there anything else?”

“No, master,” Draco answered, pushing himself to his feet. He paused for a moment and then bowed low from the waist. “Thank you, master.” Harry was taken aback at the complex emotions in his voice – gratitude, longing, relief…jealousy? Before he could question Draco on them, the man disappeared, moving quickly enough out of the room that the moment was gone before Harry’s intent had fully coalesced. In the end, he just shrugged and applied himself to his essay, able to concentrate now that he’d at least partially fixed the problem.

XXX

Harry walked towards Kingsley’s office. Announcing himself at the reception, he waited patiently for Kingsley to be ready. At least he’d requested this meeting ahead of time so Tom knew he was going to be late back. Finally, the receptionist told him that he could ‘go in now, Mr Potter’.

Walking in, he sat down at Kingsley’s desk with a sigh of tiredness. Kingsley looked more tired that he felt, he realised when he saw the lines of exhaustion on the man’s face.

“What’s wrong, Kingsley? Haven’t you been sleeping? You look exhausted.”

“Never aspire to become Minister, Harry,” the man told him with a groan, stretching his arms above his head and yawning at the same time. “It’s a whole lot of hard work.”

“Ah,” Harry said sympathetically. Then, figuring he’d best get right to the point, he jumped straight in. “I’m here for two things. First, is Snape still considered a Potions Master, even if he’s a slave?” Kingsley got a thoughtful look on his face.

“I suppose so. I mean, I’m pretty sure that I could have him brew potions for me to sell, and they could still be sealed with his Potions Master’s stamp. I think that was part of what made slaves attractive in the past – skilled slaves could be quite profitable. Why?” Harry nodded thoughtfully.

“Do you think he’d agree to take Draco on as an apprentice, then?” Kingsley looked at him shrewdly.

“What is this about, Harry?” Harry shrugged.

“I’ve been thinking about what will happen once the slaves are released. Wait,” a thought occurred to him, “has anyone been released yet?” Kingsley nodded slowly.

“Mostly ones who were barely past their majority when the Final Battle occurred or Ministry workers who only worked with the Death Eater run government for a short time before quitting their jobs.”

“What happened to them?” Kingsley frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Do they have jobs? Do they have _education_? Heck, did they even leave with _clothes_ to wear?” Harry asked, slightly impatiently. Kingsley looked blank for a moment.

“You know…” he started slowly, “I have no idea. I know that the Ministry releases them with a set of clothes and five galleons for a couple of meals, but beyond that….” Harry wanted to glare at him, get angry at his lack of attention, but in the face of the man’s obvious over-work, he couldn’t. Instead he just sighed.

“Yeah, that’s the problem I was thinking about. You see, I was thinking about Draco, about how when he’s released from his slavery, he’ll have nothing. No money, nowhere to live…and I was thinking about all the others out there who will be like Draco. People whose families were all Death Eaters or supporters. People who will be shunned by the local populace because they were slaves, who perhaps have just come out of school with no experience and no qualifications. Well, with Draco, we were talking – he said he wanted to do something with potions before all of this, but he was worried that he wouldn’t have the money for getting a Potions’ mastery, plus that no Potions Master would accept him as an apprentice because he had been a Death Eater.” Kingsley was nodding along with Harry, his eyes narrowed in thought.

“Go on,” he invited when Harry paused for breath.

“Yeah, so, I was thinking that as a Potions Master, Snape might be able to do it. I mean, he hates me, we know that, but he used to like Draco. So I thought maybe he’d be willing. The only potential problem was whether Snape would still be considered a Potions Master while he was a slave.”

“That still leaves the problem of money, though,” Kingsley pointed out, “unless you were expecting Severus to do it for free because he liked Draco.” Harry sent him a look that he hoped conveyed the feeling of questioning Kingsley’s sanity.

“Snape? Be _generous_? No,” he scoffed. “I wasn’t.” Then he sighed. “I was thinking about a loan system, actually,” he admitted. “Are there loans in the Wizarding world?” he asked, suddenly wondering. Kingsley grimaced.

“Yes, but it’s through the goblins and they can be _brutal_. They charge terrible rates of interest and if you ever can’t pay, they can be…let’s just say that they get their pound of flesh one way or another.” Harry made a face, remembering with a flash of insight why Bagman had been so insistent on Harry winning after making that bet with the goblins.

“I was thinking that I could offer loans to the slaves being released, the ones who don’t have the skills or education to get a job, stopping them from ending up as beggers or worse on the streets.” Kingsley looked thoughtful.

“That would be very…civic-minded of you,” he commented; Harry couldn’t work out whether that was a good thing or not. “But two things, Harry. First, I would first check with the goblins about their rules on other parties practising usury – there’s a reason there aren’t any other people offering loans, trying to undercut the goblins. Second…do you actually have the funds for this sort of thing? I don’t know how much you know about masteries, but they’re not _cheap_. Draco was right to worry about funding one – a mastery with a decent Master can run to more than six _thousand_ galleons!” Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise: that _was_ a lot. Nevertheless, in the end he waved his hand nonchalantly.

“Look, Kingsley. Before all of this, I had both the Potter and the _Black_ accounts. I think I was given the majority of Tom’s accounts because I had been the one to be most severely and _personally_ affected by his actions, plus bits from a whole load of other Death Eaters. Sure, I had to pay a big chunk to the goblins to make up for riding a _dragon_ out of their bank…but still. What I’m trying to say is I’m _loaded_. Sure, I can’t do it for every Death Eater all at once, but I can cover most of the youngest and most affected, at least. I’m not thinking about helping those who already had jobs and skills before their slavery; I’m thinking about the ones who would find it difficult to get a job _anyway_ with no money and no experience, let alone with the stigma and trauma from their slavery.” Kingsley nodded again.

“If you’re serious about this and manage to get the goblins to agree, maybe you should think about making a charity, instead.” Harry looked at Kingsley in confusion.

“Why?”

“Well…” the man explained slowly. “You were talking about some sort of post-release programme… Maybe this could be part of it? It would also give you some advantages when it comes to tax.” Harry thought about that carefully.

“I suppose,” he agreed tentatively. “Hermione and I haven’t really talked about that bit – we’ve been so concerned about trying to change the regulations for the current slaves…”

“Well, maybe think about it. How are you doing on that, by the way?”

“Alright, I think,” Harry answered with a sigh. “It’s a lot to think about,” he admitted, “and we’re trying not to rush things too fast.”

“Good,” Kingsley commented. “You’ll be able to get things through more easily if they’re not too different from what is currently in place.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, “but it’s frustrating to be spending so much time on something that barely cover the most obvious physical abuse when the worst bit of is the mental state….” He huffed in frustration, but got to his feet. “Anyway, I’d better leave you to it. You’ll talk to Snape about taking Draco as an apprentice?”

“Sure,” Kingsley agreed. I can’t imagine it being a problem, really, if Severus liked Draco as a student at school.” Harry shrugged and hoped he was right. Saying goodbye, he left the office, looking forward to getting home and the meal no doubt waiting for him.

XXX

“Harry, can we speak to you?” It was the end of another week at the Ministry, but Harry willingly stopped walking at the serious note in Neville’s voice. When he turned around, he was a bit surprised to see some of the other people who were currently in training to be recruits. In fact, it was almost all of them – only Jim, Lucy and Goldstein were missing. Even Zabini was there, which made Harry wonder at what this was all about.

The oldest of the two Slytherins in their group wasn’t…unfriendly, exactly. It had just been hard for him to integrate with the rest of them. Harry and Neville along with Dean and Seamus formed most of the Gryffindor boys’ dorm room, only missing Ron. Then, Neville was quite close with Susan, Padma, Justin, Lucy and Jim who had been in the Resistance. At least, he had been until Justin and Lucy had dropped out just after Christmas. Zabini…he didn’t fit. He didn’t even seem to be close with Goldstein, the other Slytherin who basically kept to himself. He hadn’t fought for Voldemort, of course he hadn’t, otherwise he would have been enslaved, but he had been a Slytherin. Much as Harry didn’t like the realisation that he had been prejudiced without being aware, he couldn’t deny that it had played a part. Perhaps Zabini had realised it, since even now, he didn’t stand with the rest of them, but hung around to one side, a good gap between them.

“Sure, Neville. What can I do for you?” Harry asked, flicking his eyes away from Zabini and to the others arrayed closely behind his friend. Neville shifted uneasily and Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise – Neville had been exceedingly shy at school, but his experiences during the war had mostly got rid of that. To see signs of the young Neville Harry remembered was…unusual.

“You see Harry, we’ve uh…”

“We’ve heard about what you’re doing with Hermione,” interrupted Seamus, his voice unusually grim. Harry braced himself for accusations, for the people who had fought against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, the people who had _suffered_ because of them, to condemn his actions. It wouldn’t change anything – Harry was determined to see his efforts through – but it would be unpleasant. “And we’d like to help.” Wait, what? Harry was shocked speechless for a moment. That…wasn’t what he was expecting.

“What?” he asked, with some disbelief, the word escaping lips that felt numb with surprise.

“We want to help,” repeated Dean, his voice as serious as Seamus’.

“But _why_?” he couldn’t help but question. Susan stepped forwards this time.

“Because we put our lives on the line to fight for justice, for what was right, and this isn’t it.” Harry looked around, taking in the expressions on every face, eventually landing on Zabini’s. It was just as grim and decided as everyone else’s.

“I see,” Harry said, barely able to think through his surprise. Then, taking a deep breath, he kicked his brain back into gear. “Well, Hermione and I would welcome your help,” he started, realising just how true that was as he said it. They had had several sessions since that first time, and they’d made progress, but they were still unsure how to proceed with getting the regulations put before the Wizengamot, let alone passed. Plus, they hadn’t even _begun_ to think about how to do any sort of post-slavery programme put in place. Harry was also very conscious of how quickly March was slipping away. Between both of their busy schedules, they were lucky to get even one meeting a week, and there seemed so much to _do_. Frankly, Harry was feeling rather overburdened.

At least Draco was slowly improving. He still wasn’t able to use furniture when Harry was in the room, but Tom had told him he was starting to sit in a chair at lunchtime when it was just the two of them. He’d slowly been becoming less fearful, less wary. Now, it seemed like he was just watching, rather than expecting an attack at any moment. Tom had dipped into his mind a couple more times and had reported good progress with his memory processing. Of course, his trauma was still evident – raised voices on the part of either Harry or Tom tended to send him into a cowering, stuttering mess, even if they weren’t directed at him. He was also very careful to always be completely covered from wrist to ankle, even when he seemed a bit hot in his heavy clothes. Harry would give him permission to cast a cooling charm, but he honestly had no idea where Draco’s wand was, and he doubted the blond could cast the charm wandlessly, unlike Tom.

But for the other slaves who were still out there, suffering, he didn’t know what to do. Neither he nor Hermione had ever been particularly adept at the political front; Tom, who had been, was several years out of date. So, if they could get help from other people…that might be the solution to their problems.

“Hermione and I have a meeting tomorrow night at 8pm about it. Are any of you able to come and join us?” he asked after thinking for a few moments. The others looked at each other and then turned back to Harry. Susan, Padma, Neville and Seamus said they were available. Dean was apparently playing a football match that evening, so couldn’t. Then, a quiet voice came from the side.

“I’m available,” Zabini offered, then looked unsure. “If you’ll have me.” Harry smiled at him, hating how apparently he’d allowed his own prejudice against Slytherins to make Zabini…Blaise…nervous about offering help.

“We’d be glad to have you,” he assured. “Don’t worry, we’ve already got one Slytherin on the team; what’s one more?” he tried to joke. Zabini… Blaise frowned.

“Draco’s helping? Is he… _able_ to?”

“Ah,” Harry cursed himself. He didn’t really want to discuss this here… “Something like that,” he offered non-committedly, not missing the looks that were shot between the others. “I’ll tell you more when you come to my house tomorrow night.” Then, suddenly thinking, he ripped a piece of parchment off his notes and scrawled the name of his house and the password to his floo. Then, duplicating it, he handed out the notes to everyone there. “8pm tomorrow, then, guys?” Hearing a chorus of acceptance, he turned and hurried off to the floo, knowing he was going to be late for dinner and not looking forward to Tom giving him annoyed looks about it.

XXX

Saturday night came and they had a quick dinner before Harry’s guests were due to arrive.

“Draco,” Harry started as they were finishing up.

“Yes, master?” the blond responded, his tone more expectant than wary or fearful as it had been at the start of all of this.

“You know that you can join us, right? We’d value your perspective. I don’t want you feeling obliged, though. If you aren’t comfortable with the idea, you don’t have to come.” Those grey eyes flickered up to meet his, something that Draco had started doing recently. Harry felt heartened at it, taking it as another sign that he was a managing to break through the conditioning of his previous master.

“Thank you for the offer, master,” he said quietly after a pause. He didn’t say anything more; didn’t indicate whether he would or wouldn’t join them, but Harry thought it was best not to push. Hearing the sound of the floo, he quickly swallowed the last mouthful of food left on the plate and went to greet whoever was there. Expecting Hermione, he was surprised to see Neville.

“Hi Neville,” he welcomed. “You’re early,” he commented, looking at the clock which still said ten to eight. The man shrugged with a half-smile.

“Figured it would be better to be early than late. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Nah,” Harry replied nonchalantly. “We’ll wait here for some of the others and then go to the drawing room.” After the first session, he and Hermione had decided that the drawing room was actually a better place for planning than the sitting room, and they’d been having all their meetings there. In preparation for the session tonight, Harry had just brought chairs from the rest of the house so everyone would be able to sit, and conjured a low coffee table so people could set their drinks down on something less precarious than the floor or the arm of their chair.

Waving Neville to a seat while they waited for the others, he looked curiously at his friend.

“Neville…why do you want to help? I mean, Hermione’s always been fervently anti-slavery, so it’s no surprise to me that she wants to abolish slavery completely, or if not able to do that, improve the conditions of those suffering it. I’m dealing with a traumatised slave every day, so it intimately affects me… But you don’t have a slave…” Neville was silent for a moment, staring into the fire.

“Do you know _why_ I don’t have a slave?” he asked quietly. Harry shrugged slightly.

“I suppose I thought it was the same reason I wouldn’t have chosen to have one – I had enough of conflict and oppression during the war to last me a lifetime.”

“I never agreed with the punishment. Gran was grimly victorious when she first heard the news. Actually, she said that she wished it had been done after the first war, said that the second war wouldn’t have _happened_ if all the Death Eaters had been enslaved.” He paused for a moment. “I found it hard to argue the point,” he admitted. “So, I told myself that my way of protesting what had happened was to boycott the auction, to never buy a slave or get involved with anyone who had one.” He smiled humourlessly. “You remember that meeting in Diagon Alley?”

“It’s hard to forget,” Harry replied wryly – that was, after all, the time Tom had almost _died_. The thought made his heart clench strangely, despite it just being a memory. Neville simply nodded, his gaze far away.

“That’s why I was so surprised to see you with a slave – I couldn’t believe that you of all people would have gone to buy one. Then, of course, you explained that he was an involuntary possession, and then I was so concerned with his identity that I lost all my concern about him being a _slave_.” He paused once more, just staring at the flames before returning his gaze to Harry. “It was only after your article came out that I was jogged out of my sense of superiority.” Harry frowned.

“What do you mean?” Neville looked at him intently, any hint of humour gone from his face.

“I mean that there I was feeling superior because I had refused to have a slave on moral grounds, only to realise that if anything, I was only abdicating _responsibility_. Refusing to have a slave didn’t make me moral – it just opened all those people, most of whom were not the monsters that the inner circle were, to being bought by people who genuinely wanted to dominate another human being.” He paused for a moment. “Do you know that both Zacharias Smith and Cynthia Eastwood bought slaves?” he asked. Harry shrugged.

“I ran into Smith at the Ministry ball – he had Nott with him, so yeah. I don’t know Cynthia Eastwood.” Neville nodded.

“She was the ringleader of the bullies who tormented Luna for years,” he revealed grimly. Harry’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Thankfully, she was the year above us so she had graduated by the time the Carrows came into play, otherwise I would have feared for Luna’s ability to cope. But she has a slave, like Smith. Both bullies…I shudder to think what living with them is like.” He sighed. “It was realisations like that that made me decide to do something… Because I, because _all_ of the Resistance, all of the Order…all of those who might have treated the slaves with some respect…because we refused to take on the responsibility of our victory, we now have this situation where too many people are going to be coming out of slavery so traumatised that they are incapable of living life normally. Then the others came to me one at a time saying the same kind of thing that I was feeling…wanting to do _something_ to help and…here we are.” He fell silent and Harry felt quite shocked at the realisation that _Neville_ felt guilty for not doing enough…

“You’re not to blame for this,” Harry told him just as quietly as he’d been speaking. “If anyone is ultimately guilty, it’s _me_ for using that ritual,” he confessed, his own feelings of guilt rising inside him. Neville shot him an almost angry look.

“Don’t say that, Harry!” he exclaimed. “You did what you had to do – you ended the war!” He sighed. “I suppose the person who is ultimately guilty for what happened is Voldemort.” He stopped abruptly and stiffened. Harry twisted to see Tom standing in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. Harry wondered how much of the conversation he’d heard and what he thought about it. Somehow, he wondered if Tom would actually agree with Neville, at least in part. Recently, he’d seemed so pensive…so _guilty_ himself. Meeting Harry’s eyes, Tom bowed his head slightly before raising his eyes again.

“Master, would your guest like a drink?” he asked neutrally. Harry told himself off – what kind of host was he? Neville had been here almost ten minutes and he hadn’t thought to offer. He was glad Tom had reminded him, though was a bit surprised that he had. Still, he supposed the man _had_ offered to get tea the last couple of times Hermione had visited…

“Neville, would you like something?” he asked, turning to his friend and putting the question of _why_ Tom was being so amenable out of his head. Neville seemed uneasy, his eyes flicking to Tom every few moments. Harry frowned for a moment, confused at the problem.

“I promise I won’t poison anything, Mr Longbottom,” said Tom’s slightly amused voice from the doorway. Harry’s eyes widened in shock. Neville hadn’t thought _that_ had he…? But Neville was flushing slightly. His eyebrows rising in surprise, Harry tried to see things from Neville’s perspective. He supposed that the only time Neville had seen Tom since his enslavement had been in Diagon Alley almost five months ago…

“Would it help if I order him not to do anything unusual to the drinks?” Harry offered, wanting Neville to relax. His friend got a relieved look on his face.

“If you don’t mind…” Harry nodded and turned around to give Tom the order. The man accepted it with the same amused look in his eyes. Harry then looked at Neville expectantly.

“Tea? Coffee? If you want alcoholic, we can look through the cabinet there to see if there’s anything that takes your fancy.” Neville considered the options, opening his mouth to answer when the floo flared again. This time it _was_ Hermione who stepped through. After the round of obligatory greetings – longer than usual since it seemed like the other two hadn’t crossed paths particularly – Neville turned back to Tom.

“I’ll have some coffee, please. Black with a spoon of sugar.” Tom acknowledged the order with an inclination of his head. He then looked at Hermione.

“Your usual, Miss Granger?” he asked.

“Yes please, Tom,” she answered, sending him a smile. Harry saw Neville watching the interaction with narrowed eyes. When Harry had made his own request and Tom had disappeared, he rounded on Harry.

“You mentioned another Slytherin on the team,” he started suspiciously. “Please tell me it’s not _him_!” Harry’s heart sank. How had he got _this_ perceptive? He opened his mouth to answer but was saved by Hermione.

“He’s been really helpful, Neville,” she told the other man in a scolding tone of voice. “We wouldn’t have got _half_ as far as we have without him.”

“But he’s _Voldemort_ , Hermione!” Neville half-yelled. Harry was once again about to respond when he was interrupted once more by the floo. Susan emerged with Padma, Blaise and Seamus following swiftly behind. There was chaos for a moment that came to an abrupt stop when they noticed the tension in the air and Neville standing with a dark look on his face and his arms crossed.

“Neville? What’s going on?” asked Susan tentatively, glancing between the three of them.

“Harry was just about to explain why he thinks it’s a good idea for _Voldemort_ to join us as the ‘other Slytherin on the team’,” Neville fumed. As one, the newcomers turned to look at Harry, a mixture of horror, surprise and humour (as if they thought Neville was joking) on their faces.

“He’s not Voldemort,” Harry replied quietly, but firmly, his eyes on Neville. “Not anymore. He wasn’t five months ago, and he’s even less so now.”

“Wait, Harry, he’s being serious? You have Vol-him, _here_?” asked Seamus in a shocked voice.

“It was in the article, Seamus,” Padama’s voice muttered. “Didn’t you read it?”

“I kinda got too horrified by about halfway through and stopped,” he muttered back. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Look guys, yes, I have Tom here who used to be Voldemort. _Used to_ ,” he emphasised. “He’s changed. A lot. Heck, Neville can tell you that he took a curse for me, could have died.” All eyes went to the man in question.

“It’s true,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Since then, he’s come to recognise that he had some hand in the suffering of the slaves, and he feels guilty for that. Much as the rest of you do, I believe,” he said pointedly, remembering what Neville had said. When a couple of them avoided his eyes, he was satisfied. “So yes, he’s been helping. He helped me work out what to say for the article; he’s helped Hermione and I work out an approach to the regulations which is hopefully fit for purpose, rather than the idealistic directions we might have gone in which would _definitely_ not have worked.”

“Then if you have everything you need, why do you want us to help you?” asked Padma logically.

“First of all, you’re the ones who approached _me_ ,” he pointed out. “But…” he sighed. “Frankly, we need all the help we can get. We can discuss this more upstairs but we need help with ideas of how to put the regulations to the Wizengamot; how to convince them to back it. We need ideas about budgets and how to enforce the rules. And frankly,” he looked from one to the other, “I couldn’t think of a more perfect group of people to make this campaign a success.”

“If it helps,” Tom’s voice said, once more from the doorway, “I genuinely am sorry for many of the actions I took and ordered my followers to take during the war.” His tone was completely sincere and Harry was quite impressed to hear it. “In fact, I was…wrong, to start either war and wish I could go back and stop myself from committing such heinous acts.” OK, now Harry was _really_ impressed: Tom didn’t admit to being wrong often, if at all. He continued. “And if you doubt my sincerity, my master will confirm that I have a standing order to be honest.”

“He does,” Harry agreed. He decided to keep it to himself that _technically_ the order was only not to lie to _Harry_ ; it said nothing about not lying to other people. No, that would just muddy the waters when Harry was pretty sure Tom was actually being completely truthful. From the expressions on the other wizards’ and witches’ faces, he thought that his little speech plus Tom’s had had the desired effect. Either way, he left a pause and no one raised any more objections.

“Mr Longbottom, Miss Granger, master, your drinks are in the drawing room,” Tom informed them. Hermione and Harry thanked Tom; Neville stayed silent. “Shall I get drinks for your other guests, master?” he then inquired politely. Harry personally thought his slave was laying it on a little thick, but figured the man knew what he was doing, so just went along with it. Harry looked at the four who had recently arrived.

“We have tea, coffee, or alcohol in the cabinet over there. I promise you – Tom’s been ordered not to doctor the drinks in any sort of way,” he added in an ironic tone, figuring they might need the reassurance. They exchanged looks and then tentatively gave their orders for drinks, all opting for non-alcoholic options. Tom acknowledged them and then disappeared again. Harry looked at Hermione.

“Do you want to lead everyone to the drawing room?”

“Sure, Harry,” she agreed affably, turning around and doing just that. Once everyone had left the room, Harry went to the kitchen.

“You were laying it on a bit thick there, weren’t you?” he asked his slave as soon as he came down the stairs.

“I thought your guests might appreciate it, master,” was all the man said as he deftly set the teacups out on a tray. “I imagined that they would feel more comfortable if they were reassured that I was under your control.” Harry shrugged.

“True. Well, don’t let reassuring our guests stop you from giving your opinions – you know Hermione and I appreciate them. I’m sure the rest will learn to appreciate them too.”

“As you wish, master,” Tom replied, an odd note in his voice. Harry nodded and patted the door frame once before leaving. Reaching the top of the stairs he was surprised to realise that someone was there.

“Blaise!” he exclaimed in some surprise, then checked himself. “Do you mind if I call you Blaise? Since I call everyone else here by their first name, it would be a bit weird to call you by your last name, I thought.” The dark-skinned man shrugged elegantly. Harry idly wondered whether it was a required class in Slytherin – to learn how to shrug elegantly: Tom could do it, Draco could do it, now Blaise…

“Not at all, if I may call you Harry.”

“Sure,” he agreed with a smile. “Now, what kept you down here instead of following everyone else?” he asked. Blaise hesitated for a moment.

“I…How is he? Draco.” Harry lost his smile and sighed, looking towards the stairs.

“He’s…well, it depends on where you’re coming from. If you’re asking about how he is compared to the Draco we went to school with…he’s completely different. If you’re asking about what he’s like in comparison to how he was when he arrived? He’s a lot better.” Harry shrugged. “You see, it depends on perspective.” Blaise nodded slowly, his eyes slightly narrowed, though in thought, Harry guessed, rather than anger.

“I see. Do you think he will join us this evening?” Suddenly seeming to realise something, he continued. “That is, if he’s allowed.” It was Harry’s turn to shrug.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Yes, he’s allowed, and he knows he is. He’s also conscious of how different he is from what he used to be, so…” he trailed off, but figured the Slytherin would be able to read the lines between what he said. Regardless of whether he could or couldn’t, he didn’t say anything more until they were at the top of the stairs and about to head into the room where they could hear the gathering already chatting and laughing.

“It’s not like Draco was every my _friend_ exactly,” the other man said abruptly. “He was always too…too prideful and _poncey_ for my taste. All that ‘my father’ stuff.” They exchanged a look of understanding about how irritating Draco’s constant references to his father had got during school. “It’s just…” he hesitated and then sighed in frustration. Harry decided to help him out.

“Yeah, I know,” he said in understanding. “Merlin, you know how much we disliked each other at Hogwarts. But seeing him like this…Yeah, I know what you mean.” Blaise just nodded and they shared another look of mutual comprehension. Harry was hit by the realisation that maybe, Blaise Zabini was someone he’d like to get to know, even without all this anti-slavery business going on. And if they ended up working together, wouldn’t it be a good idea to be on cordial terms at least? Then the moment passed and they both headed in together.

After Tom came up with the drinks a few minutes later, and then settled into the chair on Harry’s right hand side, Hermione called the meeting to order. Things were awkward at first with the new participants darting looks at Tom every so often, but as time went on, Harry’s friends seemed to accept his presence more and more. Tom helped it by not speaking much at first and always being polite. Harry had had to do a round of introductions, since Tom hadn’t known all of their names, but after that, it seemed to go relatively smoothly.

XXX

It was about half an hour in when there was an interruption. Harry was first aware of it when quiet fell around the table, eyes looking towards the door behind him. He twisted around, only to see Draco standing there, his eyes downcast.

“Draco?” he asked, inviting the blond to speak. Sometimes he still needed the explicit permission, although he’d got a lot better at being able to speak unbidden in recent times.

“Master, I –“ he started, lifting his eyes to meet Harry’s, then stopped, sucking in a breath as he spotted Blaise. A deep red flush travelled up his neck, through his cheeks and into his hair. His mouth worked for a moment before he turned on his heel and practically fled the room. Harry started rising, intending on going after him, but his action was interrupted.

“Master,” Tom said, his tone urgent. Harry looked over at him to see those intent red eyes upon him.

“I’m just going to speak to him,” Harry explained, wondering if Tom was thinking he’d _punish_ Draco for some reason.

“I wouldn’t,” his slave advised. Harry frowned.

“Why not?” Tom shrugged, then darted a look around the silent table. He hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“I…doubt he’s in the mood to listen, and he might end up saying something…unwise,” he replied carefully. Harry got the message – at that moment Draco was probably feeling angry and embarrassed, and if Harry went after him, he’d probably end up saying something which either Harry or the collar would punish him for. Sighing, Harry accepted the point and sat back down.

“Fine,” he agreed grumpily. “Padma, what were you saying?” he asked, hoping to get the curious gazes off him.

About fifteen minutes later, Harry was surprised to see Draco at the door once more. This time, his head was lowered and he wasn’t looking at anyone or anything. He hesitated for a moment in the doorway and then, when the conversation faltered once more, he seemed to summon up his courage, stepping forwards. Wondering whether the bravery that had enabled him to enter a room among those he had known before his slavery would allow him to sit at the table as equals, Harry conjured a chair and Susan obligingly moved her own chair to make space for it. Draco, however, didn’t even pause before moving to kneel at Harry’s feet, his eyes not on the floor, but determinedly not looking at anyone either.

“Draco-“ Harry started but stopped himself as he caught Tom’s quick headshake out of the corner of his eye. Instead, he just sighed and reached out a hand. Seeing Tom’s intense focus, and remembering how the man had disliked him stroking through Draco’s hair that one time – plus, he wasn’t sure if the blond would welcome the gesture – instead, he just set his hand on his slave’s shoulder, squeezing gently for a moment before releasing and withdrawing. He hoped that the brief movement would convey how proud he was that Draco had managed to overcome his fear and join them.

That he was only able to contribute two things to the discussion for the whole evening didn’t matter a bit: the important thing was that he had joined them, and that he had actually been able to speak in front of a whole group of people, most of whom he had had an antagonistic or neutral relationship with in the past. Harry was very proud of the progress he’d made and decided to reward the blond in some way afterwards.

XXX

“Draco,” Master called. Harry, he scolded himself. He needed to get used to the idea of calling people by their names again. Freedom was a bare month away and he was still _so_ controlled by his conditioning. Proving his words, his feet took him towards his master and he was on his knees before he had a chance to do anything different. Not that he would have, but it would be nice to have the choice without his body making it for him.

“Yes, master?” he asked, this time, at least, his lips requiring permission before they moved.

“I was really proud of you last night,” his master told him warmly. Draco forced his eyes to flick up to meet his master’s green ones for a brief second before he couldn’t hold the contact any longer.

“Thank you, master,” he said quietly, feeling a warm feeling rise inside him at his master’s praise. It was quickly dampened, though, by his own feelings of inadequacy – there was a time when it wouldn’t have been necessary to _praise_ him for being able to contribute twice to a discussion.

“You did well. I’d like to reward you somehow. I can use the collar’s reward function if you’d like, but I know that Tom doesn’t like it, so I won’t do it unless you want me to. Alternatively, I can buy you a book you want, or we can go somewhere.” Draco couldn’t help the wave of longing rise in him at the thought of feeling the collar’s reward. It had been a while… He would never wish to be back with his previous master, no, never…but the collar’s reward had never felt sweeter or more pleasurable than after it had punished him terribly. Ever since being with Mas-Harry, he had felt but the barest flicks of pleasure lick at him after he had followed a new order or when his master had praised him warmly for something. And those had been so _rare_.

He had been almost tempted to disobey once or twice, just to feel that pleasure afterwards…but no. He didn’t want to risk the anger of his master, not again, not now he was finally healed. He hadn’t seen any evidence that his new master, that Harry was brutal in his punishments, but he had seen how even the man who had been the Dark Lord was obedient to his orders, to his very wishes. He didn’t want to know what measures had been taken that could have the man thousands had feared kneeling so willingly at his fated enemy’s feet. 

So, regardless of how much he _wanted_ that pleasure, it was just another aspect of him that had been changed with his slavery, and he _hated_ that. A book would be pleasant if he had had one in mind, but the Black library was very well equipped, more so than the Malfoy library had been, if Draco was honest. After his master had told him the news that Professor Snape had agreed to take him on as an apprentice after the 27th of April, M-Harry had given him permission to use the Black library to prepare for it. So no, not a book.

As an idea, going out somewhere wasn’t a bad one. There was a part of Draco that shied away from the thought of being out with lots of people surrounding him – apart from going for that walk with his master and Tom when he was still trapped behind his inner mental shields, he hadn’t been anywhere but his master’s house or the Ministry since he’d been enslaved… Maybe that was the best idea – get himself slightly more accustomed to being around others in preparation…

“Master,” Draco said hesitantly, hating how his voice wavered. “May we go somewhere?”

“Sure,” Master replied easily. Harry. “Where do you want to go? The Wizarding world? The muggle world?” Draco bit his lip, despising how hard choices were for him now.

“The-the muggle world, master?” he suggested, feeling frustration at how it rose as a question at the end.

“No problem. What do you want to do?” What did he want to do? What _could_ he do? His master seemed to see how lost the question made him and continued smoothly. “We could go out for lunch, the three of us. Or we could take a walk in the park. Or Tom and I went to the British History Museum for his birthday, but there are lots of other museums. You might be interested in the Science Museum. Or maybe the Natural History museum?” Too many choices. Too many. Draco felt tears of frustration prick at his eyes at the knowledge of how badly he had been affected by…by Master. His previous master. By the systematic destruction of everything that had ever made Draco, Draco. He pushed the thoughts away angrily.

“Master…maybe a museum,” he offered, this time managing to avoid his voice rising in a question at the end. “Maybe the Natural History museum.” H-Harry nodded in acknowledgement.

“No problem. It’s a bit late to go today, but we’ll go next Saturday, alright?”

“Yes, master,” Draco replied gratefully – he was glad that he wasn’t going the same day: he needed time to prepare himself mentally, to brace himself for a day of fighting against his painfully hard-won conditioning, a day of being among other people who didn’t know what he was…. “Thank you, master.” His master nodded and then turned his attention back to his work. Draco waited for a few more moments to see if he was required any longer, and then slowly got to his feet. When no instruction came for him to stay where he was, he walked quickly to the exit to the room.

Deep in thought, his feet took him up to the library. Tom was already there, but after a brief look, he too turned back to his research. Draco went to the couch and, after a few moments of gathering his courage, managed to sit down on the seat and pick up the book he’d left on the table to one side of it. He opened the book on Potions theory, but found himself staring at the chapter he’d got to last time, unseeing.

Master-Harry was just so… _different_. At times he acted like a master, expecting obedience immediately, but at other times…it almost seemed like he expected Draco to speak to him as an equal. To make suggestions, give opinions, make decisions as if he was not the slave in their interactions. And Draco couldn't. Couldn't. It wasn’t a question of whether he _wanted_ to or not, he physically _couldn’t_ force himself to sit in his master’s presence, no matter how many times H-Harry reassured him that it was OK. He couldn’t stop himself from adding ‘master’ to everything he said, no matter that he’d noticed that _Tom_ didn’t, and wasn’t punished for it, not by their master and not by the collar.

Sighing, he leant back against the comfortable couch, the book left forgotten in his lap. Sightlessly, he stared at the ceiling and his mind wandered through all the little moments that had surprised him over the last few weeks. Like that time ago when they were having dinner and had just started arguing like a married couple. It had been when Draco hadn’t been capable of feeding himself…

 _“Master, you_ can’t _mix ketchup and mayonnaise for Merlin’s sake! It’s_ disgusting _,” Tom told his master with a horrified look as Master did just that. Draco darted his eyes up, expecting to see Master strike his slave across the face as the beginning of his punishment for daring to speak to his master like that. No such thing occurred. Instead, Master just swirled one of his chips through the mess and stuck it in his mouth._

_“Mm,” he said in an exaggerated fashion. He then stuck his tongue out childishly._

_“Merlin,” Tom muttered, covering his eyes, though from below, Draco could see how he also hid a small smile at the same time. “You can be such a child, sometimes! Just don’t feed it to Draco – he doesn’t deserve to be tortured.” Draco couldn’t prevent the flinch, but fortunately it seemed like neither of them noticed, both caught in their petty argument._

It hadn’t been the only petty argument Draco had witnessed and every time, he had been surprised that Master…that Harry hadn’t just sent a curse Tom’s way, or beaten him until he was begging for mercy. Every time. In fact, the situation had occurred so often that he was starting to think that maybe the violence _wouldn’t_ actually happen. It hadn’t just been the arguments, though, which had told him that whatever master-slave bond Harry and Tom had, it wasn’t _anything_ like what he had experienced. No, that had become very clear when he had walked in on a _lesson_ …

_“Master! Watch what you’re doing!”_

_“What?” asked Master in confusion, pausing in what he was doing. He was trying to add newt eyes to the grey and shimmering potion, from what Draco could see. If it was a Dreamless Sleep draught, which all appearances and ingredients seemed to indicate, he wasn’t surprised at the urgency which had come into Tom’s voice._

_“Harry, please cast a stasis charm.” Draco’s eyes widened in shock as Tom…called his master by his_ name _! His eyes flashed to Master, sure that this wouldn’t go past unremarked. However, instead of entering a towering rage as Draco’s previous master would have at the very_ hint _of his slave not showing proper respect, Master just…took out his wand and cast a stasis charm on the potion as Tom had asked. “Right. What do you think would have happened if you’d added the newt’s eyes?”_

 _Before Draco’s disbelieving eyes, he watched Tom actually_ teach _his master about the potion, talking about the reactions of different ingredients and leading his master to the conclusion that Draco had reached immediately – that had Master added the newt eyes to the potion at that moment, it would have immediately exploded. Draco had withdrawn from the scene completely flabbergasted at two things: first, that Master would take instruction from a_ slave _; second…that the man who had been the Dark Lord was actually a surprisingly good teacher…. A disloyal voice inside him murmured,_ better than Professor Snape…

The surprises hadn’t ended there – it appeared that Draco’s master and fellow slave regularly engaged in these kinds of lessons, both in theory and practice, and also in _duels_. He had been surprised and worried the first time he had seen both parties throwing dangerous curses and hexes at each other at a rapid pace. When Tom had even thrown a spell Draco recognised intimately as the Cruciatus, Harry ducking away just in time, he had pressed himself against the wall in fear, sure that Tom had finally found a way of escaping the collar.

He’d realised his error a short time afterwards when M-Harry called out ‘stop’ and Tom had immediately done so, surrendering that pale wand of his (that sent shivers down Draco’s spine at the sight) as soon as his master had demanded it. Since then, Draco had seen them fighting on more than one occasion – it was a beautiful, frightening sight that often left him enraptured until its end. Draco now realised why Harry had been so confident with his assertion that even should Tom escape his collar, he would have an advantage in any duel: Tom was simply too used to stopping and surrendering his wand on command that Draco suspected he would do so, even without a collar around his neck. Much as Draco feared that his own tendency to drop to his knees at the sound of an angry voice would persist, even once this band had released his throat from its hold.

Then there were the times when Harry had truly been the master they both called him. Draco shivered slightly as he remembered coming upon the two of them in the drawing room. He didn’t know what Tom had done, still didn’t, but it was clear that it had angered Master.

 _“Don’t doubt, Tom, that I am still willing to use_ punire _on you,” Master said in a tone of voice Draco had never heard from him before. It made his knees weak with fear and his stomach drop, even when he wasn’t the subject of it. The tone was very controlled, very calm, and very, very cold. “And if you_ ever _do that again, I promise you, I_ will _.”_

 _Tom had looked the part of the slave in a way Draco hadn’t seen from him particularly. So far, he’d only ever seen two aspects of Tom: either the borderline defiant, still-independent man that he was most of the time, for all that even that was a far cry from the dark lord he had been; or the persona that the other man sometimes drew over himself – he recognised its use from his own experience. Obviously, though, Tom was more experienced and wiser with its use, as he hadn’t got trapped in his own mind. This however…this wasn’t a persona. The guilt, the sincere apology in the man’s slumped posture, his head almost touching the ground in a prostrate position; that was_ real _. What did Tom_ do _, he wondered? And how could he_ avoid _doing it?_

_“I’m sorry, master,” the red-eyed man said, rising slightly to more of a sitting position, but not lifting his head to meet his master’s gaze. There was a beat of silence and then Master turned on his heel. Draco felt a chill of fear run through him as he realised Master was coming his way. He sank to his knees, fixing his eyes on Master’s chest and hoping he wouldn’t be angry that Draco had seen what was going on. His master paused for a moment and Draco felt more than saw his gaze rake over his blond-haired slave. Thankfully, he continued moving an instant later, leaving Draco to breathe a silent sigh of relief. Then, not wanting to be caught by Tom either, he quickly but quietly scrambled to his feet and tiptoed away._

Tom…The man was a riddle. No pun intended. If Draco had been asked, before all of this happened, to describe how he would imagine Lord Voldemort to act if he was a slave…well, first of all, he would have laughed in the person’s face at the thought that the Dark Lord could _ever_ be a _slave_. Then, presuming he had actually given the image some thought, he would have probably said two possibilities.

The first would have been indomitable. He would have imagined his lord facing up against any threat; all pain seemingly nothing to his will. He would have imagined someone the master would have had to keep chained up, unable to move more than an inch out of fear that he would find some way to escape, to overcome his oppressors, even without his magic, even with a collar such as they wore.

The second would have been manipulative, a true Slytherin. He would have imagined the man using cunning and strategy to make his enemies believe him subdued, giving him the opportunity to escape and get his revenge. Sometimes Draco wondered whether his guesses had actually been accurate, his second guess at least. Some of what Tom was doing…it bore the hallmarks of someone trying to make himself indispensible to his master, to make himself seem like less of a threat, more trustworthy.

But if it had started like that, it had surely gone wrong. There were too many instances where he’d done something seemingly for no other reason than because he wanted to. Sitting at his master’s feet, for example, offering himself to be caressed and stroked like a domestic pet, both participants seeming to enjoy it just as much. Reacting to his master’s displeasure even when Maste-Harry wasn’t watching. Doing things without being ordered to do them, simply because they would make his master’s life easier. Working with Granger and Mas-Harry on the regulations – Draco had listened to some of their conversations and he could tell one thing: Tom wasn’t taking part because he wanted to make himself seem more sympathetic; he was taking part because he genuinely _wanted_ to.

Sometimes Draco wondered if Tom had given into the slavery a lot more than Draco himself had, despite all physical appearances. The Tom he saw and the Dark Lord he remembered…. Harry was right – they were _very_ different people.

On occasion, Draco actually felt jealous of Tom – his relationship with his master was so different from the one Draco had had with his previous master that it was hard to consider them as being under the same regime. But whenever he thought that, he looked at the collar around the other man’s neck and, if the angle was right, he saw the sideways eight. And all his jealousy vanished: if Harry was right, and the bond truly _was_ unbreakable…Draco would be free in less than a month; Tom would be a slave forever.

So if the other man was managing to come to terms with that? Draco had learned enough empathy with his experiences and with Tom’s genuine efforts to help him that he could only wish the man well. And if that meant the slavery changed him beyond any recognition by the man he used to be…perhaps that was all the better for everyone concerned.

“Can’t concentrate?” Tom’s neutral voice shook Draco out of his musings. He flicked his eyes to meet those grey ones, a shiver of fear going through him as they did every time he met eyes with his former lord. At first, he hadn’t been able to hold Tom’s gaze, as much as he still couldn’t meet his master’s for more than a few seconds. But then, he’d realised that there was nothing the red-eyed man could do to him, not without the permission of his master, and he had lost the majority of his fear. After all, as horrifying as the Dark Lord had been, his attentions had been nowhere near as bad as what Draco had lived through since his enslavement. And now, as just another slave? What did he have to fear, truly? So he met those eyes, and the fear that flashed through him was just a remnant of a different time.

“No,” he admitted, looked down at the book that he hadn’t read a single word of in all the time he’d been sitting there.

“I see,” Tom said, raising an eyebrow as if to ask him if he wanted to share. The amicability that the man sometimes showed was still a surprise every time it occurred and Draco couldn’t help but wonder once more what had happened to make it possible from the creature who he remembered as being a constant ball of intimidating threat and terrifying anger.

Sure, Tom could still be intimidating. When he stood at his full, tall height and crossed his arms with his eyes burning like embers in his face…yes, he was intimidating. His magic still wreathed him like a cloak in times of anger or high emotion, but somehow…somehow it didn’t have the same effect when he’d seen the man humming absently as he mopped a floor, or sweating as he scrubbed at a particularly difficult-to-remove spot.

“I was thinking about…Master,” Draco said, frustrated once more that even here, with Tom, he was unable to use his master’s name. He paused and drew in a deep breath. “I was thinking how different he is. From my previous master, that is.” Those intense eyes looked at him searchingly as if piercing through to the soul below. Draco wanted to recoil from the gaze, but refused – he cowered and flinched from his master; he would not do so from Tom who posed no threat to him. “I was wondering why,” he finished, getting to the bottom of all of his reminisces that afternoon.

“Why?” Tom echoed, musingly. “I suppose that’s actually very easy to answer – he never wanted to be a master.” Draco frowned. Never wanted to be…but how had Tom ended up with Harry, then? The other slave saw his confusion. “Both of us were given to him – you because the Minister felt that as broken as you were, you needed Harry to get you back on your feet rather than another master who would just break you further. Me, because such was Lady Magic’s dictate.” Draco’s thoughts were reeling. He’d known about his own situation from comments that had been dropped around, but he’d assumed that Master had just gone to the auction to buy Tom as much as any other master had. To learn that it hadn’t happened like that…it was a surprise, to say the least.

“Master didn’t go to the auction,” he repeated, just to clarify. Tom shook his head.

“No. Why would he, when he has known what it is like to be a slave?” This made Draco stare even more than the previous statement had, but this time Tom didn’t deign to clarify. “Harry does what he does because he must, not because he wants to, most of the time.” Draco couldn’t help scoffing at that.

“Treating us as slaves is something he _must_ do, is it?” he asked disbelievingly. He wouldn’t deny that Harry had been a kind master, that things could be so much worse than they were – how could he when he had ample evidence to the contrary? But to hear that to treat them as slaves at all was an _obligation_? He shook his head and then caught Tom’s gaze once more. It was looking a bit annoyed. Once such a thing would have sent him scrambling for the closest shelter; now, it just made him duck his head briefly. Progress.

“Come on, Draco, use that brain of yours,” the older man said scathingly. “For you, he would barely treat you as a slave at all, if you were capable of acting in any other way. Tell me how many times he’s put you in your place since you’ve been here.” He paused, looking pointedly at Draco. Racking his memory, Draco had to admit that he was hard-pressed to find examples of that. Everything he could think of were examples of the opposite – Harry encouraging him to sit at the kitchen table, to eat by himself, to study from the potions books in the library…

“He makes us kneel in his presence,” Draco protested weakly. “He doesn’t object to us calling him ‘master’.” The only things he could think of where Harry had acted as a master in relation to Draco. Tom shrugged.

“Actually, he hasn’t insisted on _you_ calling him master – if you called him Harry, but were respectful about it, I doubt he’d object. As for kneeling in his presence…I wouldn’t be surprised if he encouraged you to stop doing that in the near future in preparation for being free.” Draco crossed his arms, not sure if it was a defensive or aggressive movement.

“OK, for me, but what about _you_. You say he does what he must – why does he then insist on ‘master’ in most situations for you? Why does he put _you_ in your place.” Tom quirked his eyebrow, an amused look entering his eyes.

“Because he knows my character well – better than practically anyone else, in fact.” Draco was sure his expression showed the question he wasn’t sure how to phrase as Tom continued. “He knows that it is in my nature to test, to manipulate. He knows that should I believe my master was weak, I would take control and I would be the master of the relationship, for all that I had a collar around my neck. He does what he must to preserve peace in the household.” Somehow, Draco felt that that was a piece of honesty the other man wouldn’t offer to many others. Tom didn’t seem to expect a response as he continued. “Never doubt that I appreciate what I have with Harry: he’s a good man, better than any other I’ve met.”

And then Draco was struck by a realisation – a horrifying realisation. The look he saw on Tom was similar to the looks he’d seen on his parents’ faces when growing up; the look he’d seen hints of on his Aunt’s face when she was gazing at the Dark Lord; the expression he’d seen on some of his friends’ parents’ faces when they’d looked at each other. And he knew: the man who had been the Dark Lord was in love with Harry Potter. The slave Tom was in love with his master. He wasn’t sure which one was worse, or more disturbing…and he wondered, did Tom even _know_? Did Harry?

XXX

“Tom, I’m going to Diagon Alley. I need to restock some of the ingredients – since giving Draco permission to practice some of his brewing, we’re running a bit low. Do you want to join me?” Tom barely heard him, his fingers and brain numb as he stared at his Arithmantic diagram. Surely not. This couldn’t be the answer…could it? “Tom!” This time, Harry’s voice, with its irritated tone, penetrated the fog filling his mind. His gaze jerked up just as his master appeared in the doorway. Automatically, Tom rose from his seat and knelt down on the floor, moving purely on autopilot. “Did you hear me?”

“Master?” Tom asked, that being the only thing his numb lips could manage. Harry sighed in annoyance.

“Too buried in your books,” he muttered under his breath. “I said I’m going to Diagon Alley. Do you want to join me?” he repeated. This time, the information registered and somehow prompted a response.

“Yes, master,” Tom answered, something reminding him that he always wanted to go out with his master, make sure he was safe. Harry looked at him for a moment, obviously realising something was amiss, but not sure what. A moment later, he dismissed it.

“Alright. I’m going to see if Draco wants to join us. Be down at the entrance in five minutes, OK?”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied, the same part of his brain that had been controlling all of his responses since he had had his shock, still in control. With one more slightly questioning look, Harry disappeared. Tom just left his books, left his notes – what did it matter anymore?

The next few minutes passed in a blur. Tom next became aware of them standing near the apothecary that they had visited before – not the one they had first visited together; this was a different one they had stocked up at once before when Harry’s Potions lessons had started eating through what they had first purchased. It was pretty crowded. Harry took one look at it and then turned to Tom.

“I think it’s a good idea if I go in on my own and you wait here – I don’t want us to have an incident where someone accuses you of _attacking_ them or something, just because it’s so crowded. Not so close to the debate in the Wizengamot over the regulation we’ve been working on.” Tom nodded his head dumbly. No, that would be bad. Standing to one side, Tom watched as his master walked into the shop, his mind still filled with that strange fog.

Time passed, he wasn’t sure how long. Suddenly, a hand collided with his shoulder, grabbing it and shaking him slightly. The surprise cleared the fog slightly, but not entirely. He tried to move away, but the grip was tight. Raising his eyes, though not too high, he saw a man, like any other man. He wasn’t recognisable.

“Please release me, sir,” he asked politely, hoping that his master would return soon – there was little he could do about this situation by himself.

“ _Please release me, sir_ ,” the man echoed mockingly, making his voice high and childish. “Not bloody likely – I know who you are _my lord_ ,” Tom’s eyes flashed up at his face briefly, and then down to his neck. Sure enough, there was a strip of skin around it that was slightly paler than the surrounding skin. “Yeah, you realise, now,” the man said softly. His grip tightened. “I bet you don’t even know who I am!”

“Not really,” Tom replied, rising anger loosening his tongue.

“Well, my name’s Jason Boyle, and I was one of the suckers who thought you might actually _win_ the war. Joined in the last year of your _reign_ ,” he sneered. “Do you know what I had to _suffer_ because of you? A spoilt _brat_ , constantly demanding things. Do this, slave, do that. Flicking a stinging hex at me if I took too long over it. Scraps for food, treated like a _dog_.” He spat at Tom, a lump of spittle landing on his cheek and sliding down it.

And that was it. The fog that had enveloped his mind since he had had his realisation cleared and was replaced with _anger_ , burning _fury_. Lifting his arm, he knocked _Boyle_ ’s hand off his shoulder and wiped the saliva away. Drawing himself to his full height, he felt a dark sense of satisfaction as he realised he was taller than the other man. He could feel his magic caressing the air around him, though some small sense of caution stopped him from releasing it to fill the whole area with static. He was pleased to see the other man taking a faltering step back at the burning no doubt present in his eyes.

“You say you were suffering,” he started quietly, but his voice quickly gained in intensity and volume as he continued. “Tell that to those who are currently being _beaten half to death_ by their masters every day. Tell that to those who are being _used sexually_ as playthings for sadistic masters. You think you were _suffering,_ having to obey a ‘spoiled brat’ as you say? You who bear no visible scars of your experience? You joined my ranks out of _cowardice_ and you prove that even now, you are still a _coward_! You think you know anything about _suffering_ , Boyle? You know nothing, _nothing_!”

XXX

Harry pushed his way out through the crowds who seemed to think that today was the ideal day to visit the apothecary, his bag of ingredients shrunk and tucked in his pocket: fortunately, none of the ingredients were ones that would react badly to such treatment. He frowned as he looked at the front of the shop – it seemed like there was some sort of commotion there. His heart sinking, he somehow knew Tom was at the centre of it. Biting his lip, he started pushing in earnest, hoping the man was alright. Then he heard it.

“You think you know anything about _suffering_ , Boyle? You know nothing, _nothing_!” Somehow, it was worse than if he’d found Tom on the ground bleeding. For some reason, from the sound of it, his slave had decided to cause a scene in public. Why in Merlin’s name did Tom have to cause a fuss _today_?! Getting past the final people blocking his path, he was met with the worst possible sight considering the matter about to be debated in the Wizengamot. Tom was standing, facing another man – a free man, surrounded by a circle of onlookers. Standing tall, staring the man in the face. And he was _shouting._

“Tom,” Harry shouted, his voice absolutely furious. “ _Punire.”_ Tom had started turning towards him when the pain hit. Due to the raging fury Harry was feeling, he was certain it hit like a sledgehammer. Tom crumpled to the ground, his throat already erupting with screams. Harry walked forwards until his slave was at his feet and then released the intent. Tom’s screams petered out until all that could be heard in the completely silent area was his ragged, sobbing breaths.

“Your conduct is _abominable_ ,” Harry told him, a voice icy with his continued anger and the fear of what this little incident might do to the chances of all slaves and the movement as a whole. “ _Punire_ ,” he said again and once more, screams echoed off the walls of the alley. Harry let the intent dissipate when the screams were starting to gain a hoarse note to them. And the worst thing was that the odious Odiferous Dogbane and his compatriots would use this against them. He would portray this as Harry’s method not working, as him not being hard enough on the slaves. He would argue that a minimum standard of physical health wouldn’t allow the masters the free hand they needed to work with the more _difficult_ Death Eaters. He had to establish his control, and he had to do it now.

“You have disgraced yourself, and thereby me, in _public_.” His voice sliced through the air like a blade. Tom managed to raise his head slightly and open his eyes, naked fear within them.

“Master, please!” he begged, his voice hoarse.

“ _Punire,_ ” Harry said mercilessly. This time, Tom’s screams had a definite sound of hoarseness to them. Something in Harry tugged at his heart, but he pushed it away – this wasn’t the time for leniency, or even the _appearance_ of such. The third time was the shortest, but Harry was still sure it was significantly more powerful than the last time he had used it: his rage and fear were so much greater. When he ceased his punishing intent, Tom just lay gasping for breath, unable to even lift his head. Harry turned to the man who Tom had been speaking to. He was gaping at the sight in front of him, naked shock on his face.

“I apologise for my slave’s disrespect,” Harry said levelly. The man looked at him, blinking.

“Oh, uh…” he didn’t seem to know what to say. “Thank you?” Harry nudged Tom’s side with his foot – not enough to bruise or even hurt him particularly, but sufficiently to get his attention.

“On your knees,” he commanded coldly. There was a pause before Tom stirred, a short cry of pain once more erupting from his throat as the collar evidently decided he was taking too long. Harry watched him struggle, the fury still coursing through him insulating him against the pity and remorse he might have otherwise felt. Finally, he got to his knees, his head bowed low. “Apologise to the man,” Harry then ordered. “Mr…” he looked at the man.

“Boyle,” he filled in, hesitantly.

“To Mr Boyle,” Harry completed. “Now.” He didn’t shout, he didn’t scream, but the stern implacability of his words could be heard loud and clear by everyone in earshot. Which, incidentally, seemed to be at least half the people currently visiting Diagon Alley.

“I apologise for my disrespect, sir,” Tom said, his voice tired and filled with pain. There was another note in it, one that made Harry frown. It was a note that he had only ever heard in Draco’s voice; never Tom’s. Defeat. Complete, and utter defeat. Still, time enough to explore that later. Harry nodded, turning back to the man.

“Are you satisfied that the slave has been sufficiently punished for his actions, Mr Boyle?”

“Merlin, yes!” the man responded, his tone horrified. “I mean, yes sir.” Harry nodded once more.

“Good. We will take our leave, then. Get up,” he ordered, looking at Tom. Seeing that the man was still incapable of finding his feet independently, his limbs largely unresponsive from the severe punishment he’d so recently undergone, Harry grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Gripping his upper arm with a steely grasp, he supported Tom as they walked through the crowd to the apparition point.

While they were walking, Harry took care to read the faces of those around. The expressions were mixed with the majority showing either satisfaction or unease, though Harry did see some angry faces and some horrified ones. Hopefully he’d fulfilled his purpose in proving that he was not a ‘soft-touch’ as Dogbane had been trying to portray him in the snide comments he’d made in recent articles on the matter. He had no doubt _this_ little incident would be in the papers the next day, and could only hope that it wouldn’t have long-term effects on their efforts to improve the lot for slaves overall. The thought reignited the anger which had started to ebb and he became rougher with Tom as he hauled the man to the apparition point.

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: as usual, references to rape and severe physical abuse.
> 
> …don’t kill me? ;)
> 
> By the way, I don’t intend on going into detail about the political campaign Harry and the others are running. It will appear at times, yes, but only where it is relevant to the main characters. Frankly, I don’t have the patience or the skills to write an in-depth political campaign, and this story is about Harry and Tom primarily – everything else is just background. So, just assume that there are regular meetings between the people working on the anti-abuse campaign, and that there are newspaper articles which have been part of it, plus other conversations with a variety of people that is all happening off-screen, so to speak.
> 
> Also another note (as of my edit 31/7/20) that I forgot to write earlier. No Hermione-bashing was intended in this chapter. First of all, we see her primarily through Tom's eyes, and he is an unreliable narrator (as is all of the narrative, in fact). He started off from a position of dislike - see chapter 1 for how he felt towards her and Ron at the beginning - so the fact that he doesn't consider her a 'mudblood' throughout most of the scene is a step forward. Secondly, I like Hermione as a character - she's loyal, intelligent and really, the only person who consistently sticks up for and with Harry most of the time - but I definitely feel like her main flaw is that she is really, really insensitive. 
> 
> We see this throughout the books. Book 1, she gets on the bad side of practically everyone by being a 'know-it-all' or 'teacher's pet'. Book 3, she reports Harry's firebolt to the teachers (with the best of intentions) and ends up upsetting both of her best friends. Not to mention the whole Crookshanks/Scabbers thing. Book 4, she goes on a crusade about the house-elves (which is laudable as she seems to be the only person in the entire series who has a real problem with the clear institutionalised slavery which is never properly justified) but does so in a way that either irritates or upsets everybody...It goes on. So this is my interpretation of her character - an absolutely golden-hearted person who is both loyal an intelligent, but tends to jump to conclusions and finds it difficult to acknowledge that other people can be right unless she's bludgeoned over the head with facts.


	8. Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the consequences of Tom's actions are felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, last chapter covered about two months in terms of time. This one covers…five days. FML.
> 
> In other notes, here's a scene that I know Vickironica's been waiting for since the first chapter :D Some of these scenes are ones I've visualised happening since the beginning, and the last one was decided way back in chapter 3 - I wonder if any of you caught the foreshadowing there....? I've also tentatively put this story at 11 chapters. At this point, I'm not quite sure how long certain events will take to write, so it could end up being twelve chapters, but we'll see. At this point, I've written half of Part 9 and the first scene of Part 10, so... 
> 
> There was definitely a mixed reaction to the last scene in Part 8 :D I'm so glad that you all feel so strongly about both Harry and Tom :) Hopefully, the immediate consequences of that scene have been adequately dealt with in this chapter. 
> 
> Other than that, as always, enjoy the ride ;)

_“Are you satisfied that the slave has been sufficiently punished for his actions, Mr Boyle?”_

_“Merlin, yes!” the man responded, his tone horrified. “I mean, yes sir.” Harry nodded once more._

_“Good. We will take our leave, then. Get up,” he ordered, looking at Tom. Seeing that the man was still incapable of finding his feet independently, his limbs largely unresponsive from the severe punishment he’d so recently undergone, Harry grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Gripping his upper arm, he supported Tom as they walked through the crowd to the apparition point._

_While they were walking, Harry took care to read the faces of those around. The expressions were mixed with the majority showing either satisfaction or unease, though Harry did see some angry faces and some horrified ones. Hopefully he’d fulfilled his purpose in proving that he was not a ‘soft-touch’ as Dogbane had been trying to portray him. He had no doubt this little incident would be in the papers the next day, and could only hope that it wouldn’t have long-term effects on their efforts to improve the lot for slaves overall. The thought reignited the anger which had started to ebb and he became rougher with Tom as he hauled the man to the apparition point._

Getting home, he slammed the front door open. Draco came hurrying down the stairs, his eyes wide as he took in the sight.

“Go to your room and stay there,” growled Harry. He didn’t want an audience.

“Yes, master,” Draco gulped, turning around and disappearing more quickly than he’d appeared, his face paler than usual. Making a mental note to check in with him later, Harry concerned himself with the slave he was pulling along by the arm. Storming into the sitting room, he thrust the man forward and let go of his arm. Without the support of his master, Tom crumpled to his knees on the rug, his head hanging low.

“What possessed you?” shouted Harry, striding up and down the stretch of floor between his desk and the set of armchairs to the side of the room like a caged lion. “You know as well as I do that the regulation scheduled to be debated on by the Wizengamot next week is _crucial_ to our efforts to bring in limits to what masters can do as punishment. By acting out in public, you might have completely _destroyed_ my credibility as a master, and therefore, all credibility for the _regulation_. So again, I ask you: what in Merlin’s name possessed you to do such a _stupid_ thing?” He ended up right in front of Tom, glaring down at the man as he fumed.

The regulation he was talking about was the first step to limiting what the masters could do. It required a minimum standard of health of any slave upon unexpected inspection; their justification was that to avoid potential permanent physical injury – citing Draco as an example – the masters must ensure that their slaves were healed to a certain point directly after punishment. In and of itself, it didn’t limit the masters’ powers of punishment in any way, but unless the masters wished to be spending a fortune on healers and healing potions, or were expert healers themselves, they would probably self-limit their punishments to ones that were not terribly damaging. It was a start. A start which could have been ruined by his slave’s _ridiculous_ behaviour in _public_.

“I’m sorry, master,” came a soft voice. Harry sighed angrily and threw himself into his armchair.

“I bloody well hope you are. But I’m asking you why.” There was a long silence. A deep frown on his face, Harry found his anger ebbing away again. He’d never been one to hold grudges, not if the other person didn’t, anyway. And now Tom had been punished, and punished severely, it was more his anger at Tom’s stupidity that remained. But…was that a _tear_ Harry saw? “Tom?” he asked, his tone a lot more concerned than angry. “What’s wrong?”

XXX

Tom struggled to hold himself together, the despair inside tearing him apart. He longed for his master’s touch to ground him, but he knew he didn’t deserve it – not after such a terrible punishment. Not that he disagreed with his master’s choice to punish him so severely – he had lost control in public and at a time which was extremely politically sensitive; he had definitely deserved the awful agony he had been subjected to, if not worse. But it was just…with what he had found out just before going, everything had just become…too much. He had spoken without thinking about it, the pain inside coming out as anger. His emotions spun around inside him, uncontrollable with Occlumency, and he hesitated to use his shields to help him for fear of repeating Draco’s mistake – if _he_ was trapped in his own mind, no one would be able to help him.

There was the sound of shifting fabric and suddenly Tom felt a warm touch on his chin. He didn’t fight his master as the man gently, but firmly, directed him to lift it, finally meeting that emerald gaze. He almost quailed before its power, the concern gleaming within those gem-like orbs disarming him more than the fury which had been in them a few minutes before. Another tear slipped out without permission as he struggled to hold back a sob.

“Hey,” Harry said, his voice full of the concern that shone in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked again, his thumb gently wiping away the tear trailing down Tom’s cheek. The touch both broke Tom and grounded him enough to actually get some words out. And now? Now he had to admit to what he had done and accept the consequences for his actions.

“I’ve been trying to find a way to escape the collar,” he started tonelessly, his voice shaking. Better to get it all out now: the situation couldn’t get any worse, surely? “I’ve been using the library to research it and the times you’ve given me with my wand to use spells to help with my research.” Looking down as much as he could, given the grip on his chin, he waited for punishment to descend on him once more. Maybe it would be _punire_ again, he thought darkly, something inside him gibbering in fear at the thought of undergoing that excruciating pain _another_ time that day. Or maybe he would be forbidden from the library, his permission to read books withdrawn. He’d better not even _hope_ to be allowed to use magic anytime soon after having been discovered to have betrayed his master’s trust so egregiously.

His master just let go of his chin and shifted back into his chair.

“Ah,” he said, his tone understanding. Tom looked back up at his master in confusion. Harry’s face was thoughtful, rather than angry as he’d been expecting.

“You’re not angry?” he asked hesitantly. The response was unexpected: Harry snorted.

“Of course not. I’ve known about your research since last year.” Tom found himself gaping. _Last year_?

“And you didn’t want to stop it, master?” Tom asked incredulously. Harry shrugged.

“It was something you needed to do – I understood that. And I didn’t see much harm in it: either you would find a way out, or you wouldn’t, and I had more faith in the latter than the former.” There was a silence for a few moments before Tom replied, his head bowed once more.

“Well, you were right, master,” he said bitterly. “There’s no way out.” There was a silence for a long moment.

“I see,” replied Harry eventually. “Explain that, please.” Tom’s jaw clenched as he thought back to his earlier realisation.

“All enchantments can be broken,” he started, his tone still bitter and angry. “An enchantment without a specific condition where it can be broken is incredibly weak. As this enchantment,” he gestured towards the collar encircling his neck with a sharp movement, “is not weak, I determined that it must have a way to break it.” He paused, bitterness surging up his throat like nausea might have in a different situation.

“And?” Harry asked, leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees. “What did you find?”

“My death,” Tom managed to choke out, emotions surging in him once more. Harry frowned, but Tom barely noticed.

“What do you mean?” Tom couldn’t stay on his knees a moment longer. He leapt up and started pacing, much like Harry had earlier. He wasn’t sure what these emotions were running through him: anger, bitterness, grief, despair… All he knew was that they were powerful and uncontrollable.

“My death, master – the only way I can be rid of this collar is to _die_!” The words poured out of him, a flood which had been kept dammed up now being released. “It shouldn’t be possible – no one has ever been able to construct an enchantment where the condition of release is the death of the affected, _no one_! Every time someone has tried, it’s just unravelled or exploded in the enchanter’s face! But this – this _bloody_ thing is a death noose around my neck.” He tugged at it fruitlessly, not caring that it sent sparks of pain down his nerves at his ‘attack’. “I’ll never be free! I’ll always be a slave, till the day I _die_.” His voice cracked on the last one, the last straw that broke the camel’s back. 

His tenuous hold on his magic slipped and it filled the air around him, whipping out from him in search of what had caused him such distress. Absently, he noticed it lash out at Harry, and he had only enough time to think _‘oh no’_ before the pain hit. A few moments of pure agony, and then he spiralled into unconsciousness.

XXX

Harry got out of the room sharpish after the first attack hit, watching from the doorway as the uncontrolled tendrils of magic ripped at the chairs, the carpet, the walls… Merlin, Tom had _really_ lost control there! Not that Harry really blamed him. Knowing now what state the man had been in…he felt a bit guilty at punishing him so badly while they were out.

But then, what else could he have done? Tom had been a bit… off when Harry had asked him if he wanted to go out, but since he was never _chatty_ or _enthusiastic_ , it hadn’t raised any alarm bells. The man hadn’t told him he wasn’t feeling well, hadn’t asked to stay home that day. Then he had lost control in public, at the worst possible time to do so. Harry had _had_ to make an example of him, or risk the whole movement. They might _still_ lose it if he didn’t respond in the right way to whatever Dogbane and his posse would throw at them.

He still regretted his actions, Harry decided with a sigh. Tom had been _hurting_ and Harry had answered that with the worst physical pain he could inflict. Hopefully once Tom woke, he’d be able to make it up to the man.

The magic was subsiding, Harry noted. He tentatively entered the room, moving slowly and trying not to emanate hostile intent. There was a shift in the magic as he came near, but it didn’t try to attack him. Still wary, Harry started repairing the area. As he finished up, he noticed that Tom was awake, those crimson eyes watching him with a hint of wariness, a dash of fear, and a lot of despair. The man pushed himself back to his knees, shifting almost into a prostrate position.

“I’m sorry, master,” he said, his tone hopeless and fearful. “I’m sorry.” Harry sighed again, his heart hurting at the emotions he heard in Tom’s voice.

“I’m not angry,” Harry tried to reassure him. “Not anymore.” There was no reaction from Tom, from his slave. “Sit up and come here,” Harry told him, keeping a gentle note in his own voice. Tom shuffled forwards wordlessly and Harry guided him into leaning against his legs, his head pillowed on Harry’s thigh. Harry stroked through his hair, waiting for him to relax slightly. He breathed out a silent sigh of relief when he felt the tense muscles below his hand start to release. “Why is this such a big thing for you?” he asked quietly. “I thought you were coming to terms with being a slave.” Tom was silent for a long moment. Harry gave him his time to think.

“I could manage it because it was temporary; because I thought that in a few months I would be free.” Hmm, Harry _had_ wondered if it was something like that.

“And now?” There was another long pause.

“And now, I don’t know.” Harry felt wetness seep through his trouser leg and he realised Tom was crying. “I don’t know,” the man sobbed, his voice sounding so despairing and filled with pain that Harry couldn’t have resisted his next actions if he’d tried. He slipped down to the floor and pulled Tom into an embrace, cradling his head into the join between Harry’s neck and shoulder. Tom took a shuddering breath and then his arms came up to grip desperately at Harry. His hands fisted in the back of Harry’s shirt and his tears soaked into Harry’s shoulder. He cried mostly quietly, but with the occasional heart-rending whimpers and choked gasps for breath.

Harry just held him, let him cry himself out. He knew the value of catharsis; of releasing the emotions which had been pent up for so long inside him. He’d felt that way after Sirius’ death, after Dobby’s, after the weeks and weeks of funerals directly after the war. He knew the hollow, numb feeling such tears left in their wake. So he just let Tom cry without saying a word, without trying to shush him or reassure him that everything would be OK. He let Tom mourn the death of his hopes; the loss of his freedom once more. And, with his body, he tried to tell Tom that he wouldn’t have to pick up the pieces alone.

XXX

By the time Tom’s tears had ended and he had managed to control his breathing to the point that there was only the occasional shudder in it, he was feeling absolutely exhausted. It was barely lunchtime, but the punishment plus his subsequent breakdown had left him feeling completely wiped. Harry seemed to understand because with as few words as possible, he guided Tom first to the kitchen for a drink of salt-laced water, and then up to bed. Tom would have protested being sent to his bed like a child for a nap if he hadn’t felt so damn _tired_.

As it was, he fell on his bed thankfully, half-wishing that he never had to get up again.

“Get up when you feel more recovered,” Harry told him, still that careful note in his voice that Tom was coming to hate – he wasn’t _broken_ damn it…was he? “Take your time, but if you’re not up by dinner, I’ll come and get you.” Tom didn’t respond. If the collar made him, he would, but otherwise… Fortunately, it didn’t seem to think that Harry’s words necessitated a response as it stayed quiescent. In the end, Harry just left, shutting the door after him.

Tom stared at the ceiling, hoping for unconsciousness to sweep him away to its sweet embrace. No such luck. As exhausted as he felt, his thoughts were running around too wildly for sleep to claim him. The principal one kept circling back again and again: what was he to do now?

He had…failed. The collar was unbreakable. Or, at least, the condition by which it was breakable was unthinkable for Tom, at least for now. Living was better than just giving up and dying, wasn’t it? Dying now would leave him forever as a failed dark lord, a slave to his former nemesis. There would be no eternal glory for his name should he die now. For the first time, Tom wished that Lady Magic had just struck him down – surely being killed by the embodiment of magic at the point when he was the most powerful he had ever been would have been a better way to go than…this?

But if he didn’t die, what did he have to look forward to? His body seemed to have been taken back to his late twenties or early thirties – if that was true and no illness or injury struck him down before his time, he could live to perhaps a hundred and fifty. Maybe more, given the strength of his magic – it wasn’t unknown for powerful wizards to reach almost two hundred years of age. Potentially more than a century of this: of being a slave. Harry was younger even than him, and had magic just as powerful, so Tom didn’t even have the comfort of his master’s old age bringing an early end to his life.

Kneeling at his master’s feet; bowing and scraping to all the other people he met; forced to follow every command, not matter how he felt about it; always with the lingering worry that his master was going to be twisted by the power at his command and become more like the master Draco had experienced… Fresh tears sprung to Tom’s eyes as his hopelessness welled up. It was intolerable.

 _Has it always been that bad, though_ , a traitorous little voice inside him asked? It was true, to a point. Slavery under Harry’s hand hadn’t been…as bad as it could have been, Tom admitted. And honestly, if he had to serve someone, perhaps Harry was the best bet. At first, Tom had been a bit worried about him – he had seemed to enjoy using his power over Tom a bit too much for his peace of mind, provoking Tom to a response which he was then punished for. Fortunately, things had improved: as Harry had settled into his role as Tom’s master, and Tom had settled into his role as Harry’s slave, things had…smoothed out.

Since then, he had only punished Tom for things that he had knowingly done wrong, and even that infrequently. The punishment earlier had been…brutal. There was no other word for it. Tom shuddered once more as the memory of that all-consuming agony swept over him once more. He had _felt_ his master’s fury in the force with which it had hit him, the sensation akin to being slammed into by something physical. Now, looking back on it, there was an added component which he hadn’t been capable of absorbing at the time: the humiliation. Knowing that he had writhed and screamed in front of a group of complete strangers…that he had shown his utter submission to Harry’s will in front of the very follower he had been berating…It curled in his stomach and made him feel sick.

As a punishment, it was terribly effective, Tom reflected. There was _no way_ he would act out in public again, now that he’d experienced that – no command Harry gave him could be more painful, more humiliating than the punishment he had experienced earlier. However, much as he wanted to get angry at his master, he couldn’t. Because he understood it.

He _knew_ what was at stake this week; had worked alongside Harry and Granger to achieve it. He knew, probably better than Harry, what the political ramifications could be of Harry being seen to have lost control of his slave in public; for his slave to have attacked a free person, no matter if it was just verbal, no matter that the free person in question had been a slave himself until very recently. Tom _knew_ that as soon as the news was heard by their opponents, people like Dogbane would be rubbing their hands in glee, knowing that they had been given a golden opportunity.

So he didn’t blame Harry for taking action to try to head off potential trouble; in fact, had it not been by punishing Tom, he would have been _impressed_ by Harry’s quick thinking, especially when politics didn’t come naturally to the other man. Tom even knew that he had probably come off quite lightly, all things considering. Harry had punished him severely in public, yes, but he hadn’t continued the punishment once they got home, which he easily could have. Probably should have, really, considering the scale of the misdemeanour Tom had committed. The only thing that could have been worse is if Tom had physically or magically attacked Boyle. Though he did end up attacking his master magically, he mused hopelessly. And if Boyle chose to see it that way, by him knocking the man’s hand off Tom’s shoulder, he _could_ be considered to have physically attacked a freeman. He was lucky the collar hadn’t reacted at that moment. Or maybe he wasn’t – if it had incapacitated him immediately, none of the rest of the incident would have happened.

He’d just…He’d lost control. That was it. Fortunately, his hold on his magic had slipped in private. Tom was still in shock that Harry hadn’t punished him when he’d come around – he’d seen the man repairing the last of what must have been extensive damage to his sitting room, along with the welt across his cheek from where Tom’s magic had struck him. Anyone else would have had him screaming again from the moment he’d woken up. Draco’s master wouldn’t have let him get that far in the first place, but if Draco had done even a _fraction_ of what Tom had done that day and was still with his previous master, he would be currently chained in an uncomfortable position, half-dead from the beating he would have received, and with no hope of any food or water for _days_.

Harry had…held him, had comforted him silently as he had sobbed his heart out, his emotions all spilling over in an act he hadn’t performed in _decades_. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, let alone sobs like that which had torn their painful way out of his lungs despite all efforts he made to hold them back; to control them. It may even have been before he went to Hogwarts, perhaps after another time of being adopted out and then returned a short time later after he had done something unnatural… _devilish_.

Unlike then, he hadn’t been left alone to cry his heart out into his sheets, trying to muffle the sound from the boys he shared the room with. Instead, Harry had embraced him, had drawn him close, had provided him with an anchor to cling to in the storm of emotions which had pushed and pulled him until he didn’t know which way was up. And afterwards…he hadn’t been pushed aside, Harry looking in disgust at the wet spot he had made on his clothes, the wrinkles he had put in Harry’s shirt. Harry hadn’t said anything about how unattractive Tom no doubt looked – probably with redder-than-normal eyes, a dripping nose and blotches on his face. No, he had continued being understanding, treating him like a fragile doll made of glass. And then he had left him alone to gather his thoughts; to rebuild himself.

So no, if Tom compared Harry to other masters, he had to admit, as he’d done before, that he had been more fortunate than he really deserved to have Harry instead of many others. But when Tom thought about this lasting for decades, more than a century perhaps…a lifetime…the despair rose to consume him once more. Because honestly, he didn’t want a _master_ , did he?

It was on that thought that he finally drifted off to sleep. His dreams didn’t give him much rest, tormenting him with images of himself as an old man, kneeling by the feet of an equally old man; of Harry with a vicious grin on his face as he wielded a whip against Tom’s skin; of himself, his eyes as empty and lifeless as Draco’s had been when he’d first arrived. However, the images which were the worst were not those of violence or the results of violence. Instead, they were of peace: the memory of how good it had felt to be held and comforted by his master; the relief he had felt when he, Harry and Granger had been debating about what to do with the slaves and Tom had realised he didn’t have to make a decision, he didn’t have to worry about the consequences – he could leave that to his master; the pure relaxation that happened whenever he was kneeling at his master’s side, leaning into his legs, the knowledge that he was exactly where he needed to be releasing the knots of tension inside him. And as a final thought that accompanied him back into the waking world: at least he didn’t have to figure out what to do with the rest of his life as he knew Draco had worried about – his master would do that for him.

XXX

Harry sighed as he closed Tom’s door. He had to admit that he was worried about the man. Clearly Tom had pinned all his hopes on becoming free once more and now, with that hope gone… Harry would have to keep a close eye on him for the next while, see how he was doing. It seemed laughable that the Tom Riddle who had mutilated his soul in an effort to avoid death might become suicidal, but… Well, Harry had seen what stress and emotional upheaval could do to people during the war. Losing a loved one could make someone reckless, throwing themselves into every battle with no care for their own safety. It could also cause them to turn inward, becoming eaten away by anger and bitterness. And then, for some, it took away their will to live. A few of the funerals after the Final Battle had been of suicides, people having lost their families to the war and being unwilling to carry on without them.

But that would come later. For now, Harry thought Tom probably needed a bit of time for himself. He needed to process what had happened. They’d talk more after dinner, he decided. For now, Harry eyed Draco’s door, he had another slave to make sure was OK. Groaning quietly, he wondered who on Earth thought that having slaves made things _simpler_. Walking over, he knocked on the door. It opened an instant later, Draco immediately on his knees, his head bowed low. Was he _trembling_? Harry wondered seeing the strands of his hair dance back and forth.

“Yes, m-master?” the blond asked, his tone fearful. Harry mentally heaved another sigh. Great. That whole mess had set _Draco_ ’s progress back too. And he’d be being released in less than two weeks…

“It’s OK, Draco,” Harry tried to say reassuringly. “You haven’t done anything wrong; I’m not going to punish you. Come on, look up at me.” Draco’s head slowly lifted, his fearful grey eyes meeting Harry’s. Though, Harry was pleased to note, there was a hint of…not defiance, but disagreement, perhaps. “Go on, say what you want to say,” he encouraged, reading Draco’s expression as one where the blond wanted to say something but was too scared of the potential reprisal for voicing an unwelcome thought. Draco wet his lips, hesitating for a moment before evidently deciding to go for it.

“Master, forgive me but…I don’t have to have done something wrong for you to punish me,” he pointed out.

“Hah,” Harry chuckled, unable to stop the sound of amusement from emerging. Draco cringed back into a defensive position, obviously taking it as a threat. Harry immediately regretted his outburst. “No, don’t worry, Draco. I’m not going to punish you for pointing out the truth. Come on, look at me again,” he coaxed. Draco did so, a little faster this time. When their gazes met, Harry continued. “And as it happens, I’m not in the habit of punishing my slaves when they _haven’t_ done anything wrong. I know you’re starting to get used to that idea.” He looked at Draco pointedly. The grey-eyed man dipped his head for a moment.

“Yes, master. You’re very kind.” Harry held the sigh he wanted to exhale inside – it wouldn’t help. Draco was making progress, but it was slow…

“Not really, but that’s a different discussion,” he said in the end, feeling almost as tired as Tom had looked. Merlin, but this day had been difficult! And it was barely lunchtime. Harry wasn’t hungry. He thought he’d go and have a walk – he wanted to get out of this house. “You don’t have to stay in your room now. Go and do whatever, make sure you eat some lunch,” he instructed, feeling like a hypocrite considering his own intentions of avoiding food for the moment. “Just don’t go into Tom’s room, OK?”

“Yes, master,” Draco acknowledged. He hesitated, but Harry raised his eyebrows encouragingly. “Master... is Tom being punished?” he sounded nervous, and Harry didn’t really blame him.

“No,” he answered finally. “He misbehaved badly earlier and was punished for it, but he’s not being punished now – he’s just very tired.” Seeing Draco’s horrified gaze, Harry wondered whether he maybe shouldn’t have added the last bit.

“Master, what did he do?” The question came just as Harry was turning away, intending on going down the stairs and out the door. He hesitated. Should he tell Draco or not? Maybe he should say something, otherwise, knowing the man and the trauma he went through, he’d probably just imagine a whole load of different scenarios and become worried at committing the same errors.

“He was disrespectful to a free person while we were out,” Harry told him finally, figuring that it should reassure Draco since he really couldn’t see the man having the _opportunity_ to be disrespectful to anyone in the two weeks until his release date, let alone actually _wanting_ to do it. Hell, Tom probably wouldn’t have behaved in that way if he hadn’t been dealing with the disappointment about his research.

When there was no response from the blond, he looked back to see a thoughtful expression on Draco’s face. When his slave saw him looking, he immediately bowed his head once more.

“Thank you, master,” he replied. Harry just nodded, despite Draco not being able to see it with his head down like that, and left. He really needed that walk!

XXX

Dinner that night was silent. Harry had cooked, coming back from his long walk with a clearer head. He still didn’t know what they were going to do about the fall-out from the incident; didn’t know how Tom was going to act once he came out of his room; didn’t know if he had acted correctly himself. But, he had come to an acceptance that what had happened, had happened, and no amount of grousing would change a thing. It never had in the past, except when he’d used that time-turner once, but he doubted that even all the time-turners in the world could change this. No, they just had to deal with it. And that started with clearing the air a bit between him and Tom.

“Draco, please clean up,” Harry instructed, standing up from the dinner which had probably been decent, but had tasted of nothing to Harry, so distant had his thoughts been. Draco had been rather surprised to come into the kitchen, only to find Harry cooking. He had gaped at his master and then had hung around as if he hadn’t been sure what to do. Harry had just instructed him to lay the table and sit down. He’d wondered if he would have to call Tom down, not really wanting to disturb the man’s rest or contemplations or whatever, but fortunately he had appeared a few minutes before dinner was served. He’d then spent the entire time staring at his plate in silence, playing with his food more than eating it, his whole posture slumped. When he had finally put down his cutlery with more than half of his plate left full, Harry had wanted to snap at him about the waste, but hadn’t had the heart to do so. “Please cover Tom’s plate and put it in the fridge,” he added, looking at the blond.

“Yes, master,” Draco replied, still also subdued. Harry hoped he’d get over his renewed fear – he’d been making so much progress lately that it would be a shame to backtrack with less than two weeks to go.

“Tom, come with me, please,” Harry said firmly, his tone making it clear it wasn’t a request. Wordlessly, his head down, Tom followed. Entering the sitting room, Harry slumped into his favourite armchair by the fire. Tom slid to his knees in his usual spot. Harry considered briefly whether to maybe tell him to sit in a chair, but decided that that might send too much of a mixed message at this point. “How are you feeling?” he asked instead, knowing as he said the words that it was a ridiculous question to ask: how would he expect Tom to feel, having realised that he would be a slave for the rest of his life, despite his hopes? For the first time, Harry wondered whether it had been a good idea to let Tom continue his research.

“How would you like me to feel, master,” was Tom’s lifeless response. Harry’s heart hurt at the tone and he felt a wave of revulsion roll over him: Tom shouldn’t sound like that. Ever.

“Tom,” he said, and then trailed off. How could he finish that? He had just taken a breath when he was interrupted.

“Master, don’t,” Tom said. “Please.” It was the last word which truly halted Harry’s speech. He had never heard the man speak like that. So…dead.

“Fine,” he responded and then searched for how to broach the subject he wanted to discuss. “Look,” he started, not sure how to continue, but in true Gryffindor fashion, engaging mouth before brain. “It doesn’t have to be all that bad, does it? What are you most worried about?” There was a long pause.

“I’m worried that it will always be like this. And I’m worried that it won’t.” Well, that clarified things, Harry thought with an edge of humour. He decided that mixed messages or not, he didn’t want to have this conversation on a master-slave footing.

“Tom, go and sit on the couch, alright? Or a chair if you prefer.” For the first time all evening, Tom raised his head and met Harry’s gaze. The look on his face was heartbreakingly hopeful.

“You mean…”

“Just for tonight,” Harry said hurriedly, not wanting to be misunderstood. Tom lowered his eyes again.

“Yes, master. I understand.” At least his voice had a bit more life to it, Harry decided. Tom hesitated for a moment and then pushed himself to his feet. He looked between the various options, but eventually chose the couch, lying on it and staring at the ceiling, his feet hanging over the arm. Harry raised his eyebrows at the relaxed position, but then suddenly wondered if it was intentional – fake it until you make it, style. Sighing, he decided that he needed to clear something up.

“Look, Tom. Do you know _why_ I’ve been enforcing you kneeling all the time? Calling me _master_?”

“Because you enjoy it,” came Tom’s unreadable voice. Harry blushed at the blunt statement.

“Well, yes, but that’s not-“

“Because it’s necessary,” Tom interrupted him, sighing. Harry kept silent, surprised at his perceptive answer. He turned his head and his maroon eyes, darker than their usual scarlet, met Harry’s green gaze. “Because you understand me as much as I understand you, and you know that given half a chance, I would take control. So you put me in my place, so that I don’t take yours.” He looked back at the ceiling. And that…wasn’t that just exactly how Harry had felt, put in clear words rather than the morass swirling around inside of him that he had been doing his best to ignore? Because yeah, put bluntly, those two reasons were _exactly_ why he did it.

“Why…why are you being so… _accepting_ of it?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. It was completely bewildering, how Tom could say such words with no anger, no spite. No emotion at all. “I would have thought you’d be, well, angry. Or defiant, like you were when you first arrived.” There was a long pause and then Tom turned his head once more to meet his eyes. Harry drew in a sharp breath at the emotion swimming around in it. He looked…lost. Completely and utterly _lost_. Harry itched to go over there and…he didn’t know, but do _something_.

“Do you think I’d even _recognise_ myself anymore?” he said, his voice sounding absolutely wretched. “I remember when calling you ‘master’, when kneeling in front of you was something I had to be _forced_ to do. I remember wanting to become Voldemort once again. I remember my utter _confidence_ that I would find a way out of this mess. What do I have of that now?” Harry couldn’t stand it any longer. He stood up and walked over to Tom. The red eyes staring at him, pleading with him to give him some sort of reassurance, some sort of meaning to life…it was heart-breaking.

“Sit up a bit,” he instructed Tom quietly. The man obeyed, a slightly curious look making its way into his eyes. Harry sat down where Tom’s head had been and then drew him down so that his head was in Harry’s lap. He immediately started stroking through Tom’s hair and saw some lines of tension immediately vanish as his eyes closed. Good. “You’ve changed a lot, it’s true,” he said finally, addressing the elephant in the room. “But is it really negative? Would you have wanted our relationship to have stayed like it was at the beginning?” He gave Tom the chance to speak, but he was silent. “I know I wouldn’t have,” he continued after the long pause. “The idea of constantly coming home to someone who fought me at every turn…who forced me to become brutal just to stay on top… No. I wouldn’t have wanted that, and I’d be very surprised if you could say that you would have. Because frankly, if that had continued, one of us would have broken. And I can assure you, it wouldn’t have been _me_.” Finally, those eyes opened.

“No,” Tom admitted. “I know that now.” He sighed, looking downwards. “I would have broken, I recognise that. Seeing what happened to Draco…” he shuddered slightly, the shiver easily felt by Harry with his leg in contact with Tom’s shoulders. “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t have wanted that.” His eyes flicked back up to meet Harry’s. “But how do I know I don’t have that to look forward to anyway?” Harry frowned.

“What do you mean?” There was a pause where Tom clearly thought about his words.

“Think about it, master. We have a long life ahead of us, if my appearance is any indication of my body’s age. Perhaps another century of life; perhaps more. People can change a lot in that time.” He gave a short, humourless chuckle. “Look at how much _we’ve_ changed in eight _months_. How do I know that for all that you’re a relatively kind master now, you won’t become a brutal one later, when I’ve become too submissive to give you the pleasure in domination that you seek? Because honestly? If I can’t get out of this collar, _that’s_ exactly what it will make me.”

“I wouldn’t punish you just to gain a reaction,” Harry argued, the thought horrifying him.

“But isn’t that what you did at the beginning?” Tom pointed out. “Don’t you remember those times when you said or did something provoking, just so you could punish me when I reacted? I seem to remember being ordered to crawl through the house just because you came home in a bad mood. You haven’t done it recently, but how am I to know that will last forever?”

Harry’s hand paused in its caresses. Was Tom wrong?

“When you first arrived,” he started slowly, trying to piece together his thoughts as he spoke, “I felt pleasure when I forced you to submit, yes. Looking back I think…At the time I was very angry still. I was angry at the crimes you committed during the war, and I was resentful that I had to deal with you when I thought I had finished with all that and could get on with my life. So yes, I enjoyed punishing you, I enjoyed provoking you knowing that you couldn’t do anything about it, because each time it happened, it felt like I was getting some small revenge for what had happened.” He paused, looking at the fire blankly, his hand moving once more in Tom’s hair. “But it’s not like that now. And it won’t be, I promise.”

“How do I know?” asked Tom’s voice, almost whisper-soft after a pause only broken by the snap and crackle of the fire.

“Because I have realised that it’s stupid and counterproductive to build a relationship which will last a lifetime on a foundation of revenge and anger,” Harry said frankly, looking down at him. “I haven’t…forgiven you for your actions during the war, but I have come to terms with them. Don’t forget that while you have spent the last eight months – or more – thinking of freedom and hiding away from the thought of forever, _I’ve_ been trying to imagine a way for it to be bearable.”

“I haven’t been hiding away from it,” Tom said suddenly, his eyes flashing.

“You haven’t been accepting it, either,” Harry countered. “Otherwise this wouldn’t have been such a big deal.” Unable to refute that, Tom just looked away. Harry allowed the silence to stretch for a few moments before he continued. “There’s another reason you don’t have to worry about me becoming the monsters I’m fighting against: I’ve realised that as much as I enjoyed your forced submission to my will in the beginning…I much prefer your _willing_ submission. The times when you gave in to my desires because you trusted that I had a good reason for them, because you trusted _me_ …the pleasure I felt then put any other into the shade. Why would I settle for the lesser emotion, for seeing you flinch at my presence and draw away like Draco, when I can aim for your willing acquiescence? This, where you find pleasure and relief at my touch, yesterday when I could be the rock that you clung to when everything else seemed too much to bear? That’s what I want.” Once more there was silence, but Harry was content to let it stretch. He felt peace inside, having laid his desires out on the table.

“You paint such a pretty picture,” Tom said, and Harry was once again surprised at the emotion in his voice. It was a strange mixture of anger…and longing. “But you forget that for me to fit into it, I have to change _completely_.”

“Do you really, though?” Harry pointed out calmly. “Can you say it’s only the collar making you enjoy this? Does the collar force you to kneel by my side sometimes in the evening and lean against my leg so I can stroke your hair? Is it the collar that makes you flush in pleasure when I praise you? You’ve changed, yes, but can you blame the collar for all of it? Or is it that in the position where you are stripped of all the pride and arrogance that made Tom Riddle before, and Voldemort after him, you suddenly realise there is a deep need for affection inside you?” Tom’s face twisted like he was being tortured. Harry released his hair and shifted as if to get up, thinking that maybe he would want a bit of space, but his hand shot out to grab Harry’s wrist.

“No, please!” he begged, his voice almost as desperate as it had been on the occasions he had pleaded for Harry not to use _punire_. Then, as if he realised what he had said, what he had revealed, his hand let go of Harry’s wrist like it was red-hot. He was tense, his eyes clenched shut, as if by doing so, he could block out reality. Harry returned his hand to Tom’s hair, not attempting to move away. Some subtle tension left the prone body, but it remained stiff. Harry just carded his fingers through Tom’s silky locks, looking at the fire and giving him his space.

Because the thing was, the only reason Harry could read Tom so well was because as much as Harry had hated the comparison in his Second year, horcrux-Tom had had a point – they were remarkably similar. And if Harry knew that Tom had a profound need to be loved buried deeply inside him? It was only because he was aware of the same need within himself. Still, he thought that his point had been made well enough; any further pushing was likely to lead to backlash, as much as Hermione’s well-meaning prodding had sometimes led to Harry snapping at her.

“There was something else I wanted to discuss,” he said conversationally, still not looking at Tom, but feeling him relax in increments as he realised Harry wasn’t about to continue the point he’d been making. “Have you thought about what you’d like to do next? Academically, that is.”

XXX

“Master?” Tom asked, confusion filling him at the non-sequitur. Frankly, this whole conversation had left him feeling unbalanced. They’d been speaking so…bluntly, so honestly. It was completely abnormal. Tom had surprised himself with revealing his inner fears so easily, and had been equally surprised by the revelation about his master’s visions of the future. He still didn’t know how he felt about the idea of _offering_ his willing submission….

On the face of it, it wasn’t much different from what he’d been doing for a while; ever since he’d decided to be a ‘good slave’ for the remainder of his time with Harry, in fact. But this time…what Harry was proposing was that he just…allowed himself to give in to the collar. Permanently. Finally accepted that he was a slave, and that was all he would ever be, until he died and became just another corpse to be disposed of. He didn’t know if he could do that.

But what else could he do? Harry had been right when he had said that Tom wouldn’t have preferred being defiant and fighting his master until Harry turned into a master as brutal and sadistic as Draco’s. And trying to balance his intentional submission with the unintentional conditioning had led to his breakdown at the beginning of the year when he had realised that it _really_ hadn’t been working. And it was true: the last few months where Tom had given himself permission to _stop_ fighting with the excuse that it was just until he broke out of the collar…it had been a relief, for the most part.

He hadn’t had to worry about if he was doing the right thing or not: if he was following his master’s orders, that was all that was important. He had been able to enjoy his master’s casual affectionate touches, not caring that he _shouldn’t_ allow himself to be caressed and stroked like a pet. He’d felt guilt at his actions, and the consequences of them, during the war, but knowing that he was undergoing his punishment and that his master was the one to decide how severe it should be? It was freeing. Intentionally dismissing his mental image of himself and how he _should_ react, had freed him to just…be. And the experience had been…more satisfying than he would ever have imagined.

But however much the idea tempted him, Tom couldn’t help but buck against the invisible chains pulling him inexorably towards a conclusion where giving up all hope of freedom and free-will was seen as a _good_ thing. Thus, his tortuous dilemma. Fortunately, he had an excuse not to think about it. Harry shrugged, looking down at him once more, his gaze considering.

“Another reason I allowed the continuation of your research was that I knew that brain of yours needed to be occupied. So, now that that project has come to an end, what do you want to do instead?” Leaning back into the couch, he started listing some possibilities. “I mean, if you wanted to pursue a Mastery of some sort, I could investigate the possibilities. I know that Masters who had gained their Mastery _before_ becoming slaves continue to be recognised as such, but I can’t see why you wouldn’t be able to _gain_ a Mastery _while_ being a slave, if we could find you a Master who would be willing to take you as an apprentice. I’m sure we could,” he added thoughtfully. “We might have to look outside Britain, but…” he trailed off, perhaps becoming aware of Tom’s eyes fixed on him, Tom mentally questioning his master’s sanity.

 _Why_ would Harry sponsor his slave in becoming a _Master_? But he couldn’t help but hope that maybe…maybe he was being genuine. He had always enjoyed learning, yes, mostly because the more he knew, the more power he had, but now…even with the knowledge that he would never have power again, he still felt inside himself a thirst for learning; he hadn’t realised how strong it was until he had faced the potential of never being allowed to pursue new discoveries again.

“You’d allow that?” he asked wonderingly. Harry shrugged.

“I’m hopefully going to be sponsoring the education of a number of former slaves, if the goblins agree to my loan scheme; why would I deny _my_ slave the same opportunities?” Tom shrugged, still filled with bemusement. Because honestly, there were _plenty_ of reasons for why Harry wouldn’t offer his slave the same possibilities as freemen and freewomen. Principally…

“But what would be the _point_? If I’m going to be cooking and cleaning for the rest of my life, what’s the point of me learning new skills?” Harry suddenly looked uncomfortable and fidgeted for a moment before putting his hand under Tom’s shoulder and pressing upwards. Tom followed the non-verbal instruction and sat up slightly. Harry slipped out from under him and headed towards the door, throwing a quick ‘stay there’ over his shoulder. Perplexed, Tom shifted so that he was sitting on the couch more than lying on it, and just watched the doorway until Harry returned.

When he re-entered, Tom’s eyes zeroed onto the item in his hands: his wand. Harry fidgeted with it, hesitating in the doorway and then coming to sit next to Tom on the couch. Realising that he was actually looking _down_ on his master, because of the difference in their heights, Tom felt uncomfortable and slid to his knees next to it.

“Master?” he said, unable to prevent his hope and his apprehension from coming through his voice. Why was his master holding his wand, the pale yew length looking _wrong_ in his hands?

“I…Here,” he said, shoving the wand towards Tom. Tom took it with care, the familiar spark rushing through his fingers to welcome him as it always did. He then looked back up at his master, mystification running through him. It wasn’t the time for him to go out in the garden…

“Master?” he asked once again, hope rising in him.

“I’m giving you permission to use your magic, both with and without your wand while you’re in the house, as long as it’s not used to hurt any sentient being.” Harry gave him an apologetic look. “I’m afraid I’m not changing the rules when it comes to being _out_ of the house, but…” Tom looked at him, knowing his mouth was gaping open unattractively. This was _completely_ unexpected. What had he done to earn _this_? And then the elation running through him was soured as a thought occurred.

“If this is because of some _pity_ ,” he started angrily, trying to shove his wand back into Harry’s hands at the thought. His master didn’t take it, just looking at him in surprise.

“Pity? No, what makes you think that?”

“Because you think that after what happened earlier, I need something to…to keep me going,” Tom explained, though he felt a smidgeon of doubt at the clear incomprehension in Harry’s voice and on his face. He stopped trying to push the wand away, and instead let his hands, with it held in one of them, fall to his lap. Harry got a shocked look on his face.

“No, of course not! No. It’s nothing to do with that. Well, OK,” he corrected himself, “there is an _element_ that is linked, but it’s not what you think,” he quickly reassured Tom. Then, clearly taking a mental step back, he tried to reformulate his thoughts. Tom waited impatiently. “I told you that you would have to prove yourself as trustworthy before I gave you access to your magic, remember?” Tom inclined his head. Eight months ago it might be, but yes, he remembered. “Well, with what you did with Draco…” Harry shook his head, but not to indicate a negative emotion; this was more in surprise or disbelief. “When he arrived here, the possibility of him making as much progress as he has…I didn’t think it was possible,” he admitted. “But you’ve done that. You worked hard to break through his mental shields, despite the impact it had on you. And then, since he became more…aware, you’ve been surprisingly patient and helpful with him…” He sighed and looked off to the flames. “That was enough to get me thinking about it. But then today happened-”

“And you decided not to do it,” Tom finished, his heart sinking as he contemplated the cruelty of Harry offering the possibility of him having his magic more freely available, and then taking it away. Harry shook his head.

“No, that wasn’t what I was going to say,” Harry denied. “I was going to say that as bad as the incident earlier was…it could have been a _lot_ worse. If you had tried to attack him magically, you wouldn’t have succeeded, but it would have looked _so_ much worse. Same for if you’d tried to attack physically. But you didn’t. You lost control, but you kept it to verbal only. So…I figure that if you can still mostly restrain yourself when you’ve just had a massive shock, you can probably control yourself in a more normal situation. So…” he made a descriptive hand gesture which Tom interpreted as meaning ‘here we are’ or something similar. Warmth started filling Tom at the thought that maybe, just maybe…this was real.

“You’re not playing some cruel joke, master?” he couldn’t help but ask, the words slipping out without his permission. Harry shook his head, his lips quirked in a half-smile.

“Nope. So yeah, think about what you’d like to do for the future. Now that you’ll probably be able to do your cleaning chores in half an hour, you’re going to have a lot more free time to fill.”

Oh, he’d be done a lot quicker than that, Tom thought gleefully, his spirits instantly lifted by the prospects ahead of him – his experiments with magic at Christmas had proved that about an hour of casting enchantments throughout the house would prevent him from having to spend _any_ time on cleaning while the enchantments were active. A little bit of upkeep every so often and he’d never have to worry about cleaning again. He looked up at his master to see a strange, soft look on his face. Seeing Tom looking, he quickly blanked it, leaving Tom blinking in surprise. What was _that_ about?

“Go on, then,” Harry told him, his tone one of forced jocularity. “Have fun. Just…” he hesitated. “Once you’ve decided what you’d like to take on as your next project, come and speak to me about it, OK? I don’t want you starting to practise strange magics without anyone knowing what you’re doing.”

“If you’re worried about me casting magic you don’t approve of, why are you giving me practically free rein with my usage?” Tom pointed out, despite the little voice inside him telling him not to. Harry’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Actually, that wasn’t what I was thinking,” he said, though a flash of doubt crossed his face, “though now you mention it…if you think that I _wouldn’t_ approve of it, either don’t do it or check with me first.” He eyed his slave pointedly. “Don’t forget that I found out about your research project _ages_ ago – if I find you’ve broken my trust on this, I’m sure you can imagine the consequences…” Tom gave him a nod, definitely able to imagine the punishment – the loss of his magic would probably be the _least_ of what he’d suffer. “But no, I was actually thinking about your safety. I know that research can be dangerous, and if no one knows what you’re doing, and something goes wrong, it might be too late to help you by the time someone finds out.” It was Tom’s turn to show surprise in his expression. For some reason, his own safety had been the _last_ thing on his mind. Probably why his master had made the statement, he mused ruefully.

“I understand, master,” he said, finally. “ _Thank you_ , master,” he said fervently, his hands gripping onto the wand like a lifeline, like a prayer. Harry nodded and then stood up, moving away to his desk. Just before starting his studies, he pinned Tom with one more hard look.

“Don’t mess this up, OK? I’m _trusting_ you.”

“I won’t, I promise.” Tom had no problem in meeting Harry’s eyes and showing the sincerity of his words through them. He wouldn’t betray Harry’s trust, he decided. No questionable magic was worth potentially losing access to _this._ Harry just kept looking at him for one long moment. Then he nodded and the feeling of being pinned in place vanished.

“Good. Go on, then – enjoy yourself,” he said with a small smile. “But make sure you get to bed at a reasonable time, OK?” Being scolded about bedtime should have irritated Tom – he was a grown man, after all, not a child. But somehow, in the context of everything they had discussed, and in _their_ context…it felt more like concern, like caring. And it felt good.

Leaving the room, Tom did his best to focus on his joy at having almost unrestricted access to his magic again, trying to leave the uncomfortable and far too frank discussion they’d been having behind. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy to mentally leave the room as it had been physically.

XXX

The paper arrived the next morning and Harry took it from the owl. He shook it out and looked at the front page. Tom and Draco both watched him as his expression darkened before, a few minutes later, he threw it down on the table with disgust and stalked out of the room, his breakfast half-eaten. Tom and Draco exchanged a look and then as one, they pulled the paper over and started reading it.

**_ The Daily Prophet _ **

_Sunday 16 th April 2000_

**_ Slave gone rogue? _ **

**_Tom Riddle aka Lord V- causes a scene in Diagon Alley_ **

_After all the assurances made by his master, Harry Potter, in an article in February, it comes as a surprise that the slave once known as Tom Riddle, the real name of Lord V- was at the centre of a scandal in Diagon Alley yesterday._

At Tom read, the article went on to describe, fairly neutrally, what had occurred, and he had to admit that it didn’t look good. Because all of it was true, they wouldn’t be able to argue that the events had been exaggerated: they weren’t. Tom _had_ shouted at a freeman while standing over him intimidatingly – the picture that they had managed to get was descriptive enough. It showed Tom standing in a powerful stance, his eyes flashing dangerously, a snarl on his face. He looked dangerous. He looked…out of control.

And then to add insult to injury, somehow, Dogbane had managed to get a quote into the article.

_“I was immensely saddened to hear about this incident – to know that one of my fellow slave-owners has allowed his slave to get out of control to this extent […] I feel this demonstrates my point: these former terrorists require a firm hand and clear boundaries if they are ever to be safe among normal people. The slave Tom has been allowed too much freedom and this incident proves that.”_

“Merlin, you really screwed the pooch here,” Draco said, staring disbelievingly at him. 

“I know,” he replied grimly, still staring at that photo of him standing upright and angry. Once, maybe, it would have filled him with pride to see himself so dominant. Now…now it just symbolised exactly how much he had messed up. Merlin, Harry _really_ hadn’t punished him enough. Draco seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“What did he _do_ to you? I mean, it says he punished you in public, but it doesn’t go into much detail.”

“He used _punire_ ,” Tom replied shortly. “And made me apologise. In front of everyone.” There was a silence for a moment and he turned to see Draco staring at him.

“Merlin, is _that_ all?” the blond finally spluttered. “Master…my previous master used to use p-it on me just for looking him in the _eye_. Even _accidentally_. Please say he used it more than once!”

“Three times,” Tom replied, crossing his arms, knowing it was a defensive gesture but not caring. Draco just shook his head in bemusement.

“Seriously, you are _such_ a lucky bastard, Tom,” he said. Tom just set his teeth in irritation. Easy for Draco to say – he wasn’t the one who was going to be stuck as a _slave_ for the rest of his natural life! Unable to take it any longer, and missing the time when Draco was too terrified to say a word, he stood up from the table. Looking at Harry’s abandoned plate, he hesitated and then picked it up. On his way out of the door, he cast a wandless warming and then stasis charm. “Wait, since when can you use _magic?”_ he heard behind him.

“Since master gave me permission,” he shot back and left the room.

XXX

Harry was sitting at his desk, staring darkly at the piece of parchment with a dripping quill in his hand. He knew he needed to notify someone, do something, but what or who…it was beyond him. Sighing in frustration, he dumped the quill back in its pot and glared at the fire. A movement at the door caught his eye and he scowled further as he caught sight of the cause of all of this. Tom hesitated, perhaps because of the dark look Harry was aiming at him, but he continued walking in nonetheless.

“You didn’t finish your breakfast, master,” he murmured, moving closer. Harry saw that he was carrying a plate. At the sight, Harry felt a strange mixture of grateful and annoyed. Grateful that Tom had been thoughtful enough to bring it, and annoyed because he was ultimately the reason Harry had abandoned it in the first place.

“Thanks,” he finally settled on as Tom placed it on his desk. His slave hesitated for a moment and then knelt fluidly without saying anything more. Harry tried to turn his attention back onto writing his letter, though he still didn’t know the destination or really the purpose, so it didn’t take long before he was leaning back in his chair and groaning at the ceiling in frustration.

“Couldn’t you have chosen a _better_ time to have your melt down?” he griped at Tom, not really expecting an answer. “Or just _told_ me that you weren’t in the right state to accompany me to Diagon Alley? I don’t know what the hell to do about this!”

“I’m sorry,” Tom replied, sounding miserable. Harry sighed.

“Yeah, well, what’s done is done.” There was silence for a moment and he glanced down. Tom looked like he was fighting some sort of internal conflict. Harry waited for him to decide what to do or say or whatever.

“Master,” he started hesitantly. “You…you were _lenient_ with me. Draco had a g-good point.” He swallowed noisily, his eyes looking like they belonged on some scared animal about to bolt. “Maybe you should… _punish_ me further.” Harry frowned at him.

“How will _that_ help? It’s done, isn’t it?” Tom wouldn’t meet his eye.

“People like Dogbane will criticise you for being _soft_. If I…if I don’t have any _visible_ m-marks of punishment…” he didn’t seem able to finish the statement, but he didn’t have to – Harry could fill in the blanks. If he didn’t have any visible marks of punishment, Dogbane and his group would question whether it had happened at all. Sure, the initial bit had been obvious, happening in the middle of Diagon Alley as it had, but the article hadn’t focused on that at all, barely even noting that punishment had occurred. Anyone who hadn’t been there in Diagon Alley would look at Tom and just see a slave who had got away with committing a serious offence. And they would see a master who was incapable of punishing his slave. Exactly what Harry had been trying to avoid with the whole public punishment thing… He sighed, his eyes narrowing as a thought occurred.

“Why are you trying to get me to punish you, anyway?” he asked, slightly suspiciously. “I would have thought you’d try to _avoid_ punishment.” Tom fidgeted under his gaze, still not meeting his gaze. “Tom,” Harry said warningly, making it clear he expected an answer. The man bit his lip, but answered.

“Master, I…It’s not good for me if you’re angry,” he said softly. “I know I behaved badly. I know I’ve caused a lot of problems for you…I’d rather you take your anger out on me now than wonder when it will explode on me in the future.” He sounded completely honest, and the collar wasn’t reacting.

“Is that the _only_ reason?” Harry asked, though, still feeling suspicious.

“Yes, master,” Tom replied. Huh. Was this really _not_ a manipulation tactic? Had Tom actually internalised some of their discussion last night? Or was this just him realising that he was going to be with Harry for a long time and not wanting to store up trouble for the future? Either way, it was a noble gesture, but futile in the end. Harry sighed again.

“I appreciate the thought,” he said finally, “but I can’t do it. I can’t just _beat_ you. And despite appearances, I’m not actually angry at _you_ , not anymore. Yes, I’m frustrated that this situation has happened, and I’m completely lost about what to do next, and yes, I’m annoyed that you didn’t _speak_ to me about it _before_ this whole thing…but you were not in a good state of mind, I understand that. And frankly, I feel like I already punished you _too much_ as it is.” There, it was out. He hoped it made more sense to Tom than he suspected it might – it had sounded so much better in his head. Tom was staring at him, his mouth open slightly.

“You think you punished me _too much_?” he said disbelievingly. “Master, I disgraced you in public. I lost control of my magic and destroyed your sitting room. I _attacked_ you. Using _punire_ three times, as horrible as that experience was, is nothing in comparison to my offences.” Harry glared at him, starting to feel annoyed.

“And I told you that I feel like you’ve had sufficient punishment! Are you really going to keep arguing with me on this?” They stared at each other, each glaring, though Harry more hotly than Tom. Then, realising the ridiculousness of the situation, Harry couldn’t help from chuckling. “Look at us: we’re arguing about punishment and you’re arguing _for_ punishment while I’m arguing _against_ it, for Merlin’s sake.” Shaking his head, he couldn’t help from marvelling at the turn the conversation had taken. Looking at Tom, he saw the same reluctantly amused feeling he was experiencing.

“The irony of the situation aside, master, you surely have to see my point.” Harry huffed.

“Tom, are you ever going to repeat the action?”

“No!” The response was immediate and definitive. Tom’s tone left no room for doubt. Harry nodded, satisfied.

“Then the punishment has served its purpose. Doing anything further wouldn’t be justice – it would be abuse, and I would be no better than those I’m trying to stop.”

“But master,” Tom started.

“No,” Harry told him, his tone stern and his gaze steely. “I won’t hear another word about it, understood?” Tom held his gaze for a moment longer before flicking his eyes to the floor.

“As you wish, master.” Harry nodded once again in satisfaction.

“Good. Now, have you got any ideas about what we can do about this?” Just then, Harry’s floo flared and Hermione’s face appeared.

“Harry, can I come through?” she asked, her gaze raking the room and landing on Tom’s kneeling figure. Harry had barely a moment to consent before she was stepping through. “Harry, I saw the paper. What happened?” Then her eyes looked Tom over, spotting his lowered head and biting her lip in worry. “Tom, are you OK?” she asked him directly. Tom flicked his eyes up to Harry, silently asking permission. Harry flicked his fingers slightly, giving it to him just as subtly. Twisting his body around, he fixed his gaze on the floor at Hermione’s feet.

“I’m perfectly fine, Miss Granger, thank you,” he responded politely.

“But I heard that you, that well, after what happened…” she became flustered and looked at Harry and then flicked her eyes away as if not sure what to think. “I heard you were _screaming_ ,” she almost whispered in the end. Ah. Harry opened his mouth to justify his actions, but he didn’t need to – Tom answered for him.

“Miss Granger, my master has been much more lenient than I deserve, and any punishment on his part was _fully_ justified and completely in line with the changes we are attempting to make. There is no need to worry about me.” Smooth, Harry thought admiringly. He knew exactly what to say to alleviate her worries and doubt. No wonder Tom Riddle had been known as a charming bastard if _this_ was an example of his work. Before Hermione could respond, the floo flared again, this time Kingsley’s head appearing in it.

“Come through, Kingsley,” Harry said, a weary note in his voice before the man could say anything. He promptly did so, casting a glare at Tom.

“I hope you’ve punished the hell out of that slave for the mess he’s made,” he said savagely. Hermione gaped at him.

“Kingsley!” she gasped, outraged. Harry just face-palmed.

“So, I’ve got Hermione thinking I’m abusing him, and you thinking I haven’t done enough…” He looked at Tom and saw the man gazing up at him, the barest hints of amusement in the creases around his eyes. “Not. A. Word,” he warned and Tom dropped his gaze, though Harry was pretty sure that was partly to hide the slight quirk which had appeared at the corner of his mouth. He looked back up to see his two guests staring at him. “I’ve already told Tom this, and I’ll tell you – the punishment I performed has served its purpose. Any further punishment would be abuse. End of.” Kingsley looked at Tom doubtfully, but evidently decided not to push it any further.

“You’ve got an inquiry interview planned with the Department of Corrections,” he warned instead. Harry frowned at him.

“I haven’t heard anything about that.” Kingsley shook his head.

“You wouldn’t have – your letter will arrive tomorrow morning with the time and date. I only know about its existence because of a memo that passed over my desk last night. So, what the hell happened, Harry?” he asked impatiently. “Everything was going so well to plan, despite the small group of malcontents trying to push back against the changes. Now…”

“I know,” Harry sighed. “I read the paper this morning. Dogbane’s already jumping on it, as expected.”

“Exactly, so what happened? _Why_ did this happen?” Seeing that both of them were gazing at him expectantly Harry just sighed once more – he’d start developing hyperventilation syndrome if this kept up – and thought about how to explain.

“I suppose to answer that question, I need to tell you that Tom’s been researching ways to break the collar’s enchantment.” Hermione gasped again, raising a hand to her mouth. Kingsley just gave him a hard look.

“With your permission?” Harry shrugged.

“Not exactly, but I’ve known about it for ages,” he answered easily. Kingsley’s frown just deepened.

“And you didn’t think it was a good idea to forbid it?” Harry met his gaze, look for look.

“No. It was something he had to do, I understood that. Besides, _I_ wanted to know, too; I had faith that it wouldn’t come to anything, anyway, but wanted to know for sure. And my thoughts proved to be true.”

“There’s no way out of it?” Hermione confirmed. Harry nodded.

“No feasible way, at least. That’s what happened yesterday. Tom found out that the collar’s enchantment was unbreakable, and that his slavery would be endless. Since he’d believed that he would find some way to escape, this was a bit of a shock.” Suddenly thinking, he looked back down at his slave. “Tom, how long before we went out was your discovery?” The man thought for a moment.

“Ten minutes, I think, master.” Harry stared at him.

“ _Ten minutes_? Had you even had time to _process_ it?”

“Not really, master,” Tom replied, a little ruefully. Harry just shook his head and looked back up at Kingsley.

“So there you are. Shell-shocked slave plus difficult situation equals an even _more_ difficult situation.” Sighing, he continued. “Honestly, I don’t know what to do. I was asking Tom for suggestions, but then you two arrived.” There was a pause, each of them eyeing the other as if someone would suddenly pull something brilliant out of a hat.

“Perhaps another interview?” suggested Hermione. Harry considered it. Maybe…but Kingsley was shaking his head.

“No, it needs to be more hard-hitting than that.” He fixed his gaze squarely on Harry. “You need to do a press conference.” His tone was one that was difficult to argue with, but Harry was going to try anyway.

“A _press_ conference?” he yelped. “How is _that_ going to help?”

“It’ll get the message out quickly and comprehensively,” the Minister told him, “especially if we get the wireless involved.”

“The _wireless_?” Harry moaned. This was sounding better and better.

“Yes. Best of all, we’ll make sure there are enough hard-hitting journalists that even Dogbane and his comrades won’t be able to accuse us of throwing you a softball.” Harry decided that now was a good time to thump his head on his desk. Gently. He didn’t need a migraine on top of this headache.

“But Kingsley,” he argued, “I’m _hopeless_ at that kind of thing. I’ll muck it all up!” Kingsley looked at him with a surprisingly compassionate expression.

“Harry, no one _likes_ these kinds of things. Except for drama queens like Fudge, that is. And he only liked them when they were full of his sycophants, besides. But anyway, you’ll be fine. I’ve seen enough from you lately to know that you’ve got the beginnings of a good politician in you, should you choose to go down that route.”

“Don’t insult me,” muttered Harry into his desk, which he was again thumping with his head. He paused it to glare back up at Kingsley. “Why would I ever choose to be a _politician_?” Kingsley shrugged.

“Because you’re destined to be in the public eye, anyway? Because if you make it through the Auror recruitment and then the training programme, which I have full confidence that you will do, you’ll probably make Head Auror within the decade. And from there, many Head Aurors have jumped to the Head of the DMLE entirely, and then to the Minister’s seat in their later years.” Harry just stared at him.

“I can see how exhausted you look. Do you think I _want_ your job?” he asked incredulously. Hermione cleared her throat.

“I think we’re getting a bit far from the point here. Harry, I have to agree with Kingsley – painful as it will be for you, I think a press conference, done well, would be the best option.” She considered it carefully. “In fact, maybe we should plan it for the 19th – that’s the day before the regulation will start being debated in the Wizengamot. That way, it will be fresh in their minds.” Kingsley nodded along with her words.

“Agreed. I’ll organise it for then. I’d suggest that you communicate with the other members of the movement, and reassure them that the matter’s being dealt with.” He went toward the fireplace, taking the pot of floo powder from the shelf. Before he took a pinch, though, he hesitated. Eyeing Tom for a moment, he looked back at Harry. “I would suggest that you don’t take your slave into public with you for a while. And when he goes to the inquiry, it would be better for him to have some marks on him, or you probably won’t like the outcome.” He ignored the ‘Kingsley!’ that came once again from Hermione’s general direction. “Probably best just not to let him out for a while anyway – that way, everyone can imagine what you’ve done without the proof there to gainsay them.” Harry didn’t respond immediately, the idea of intentionally ‘putting marks’ on Tom making him feel sick to his stomach, for all that Tom had suggested the exact same thing earlier.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said, reluctance in his voice. Kingsley gave him one more look and then with a quick word of farewell, vanished through the green flames. Harry turned to Hermione.

“Looks like I have some letters to write,” he said wearily. She nodded.

“I guess they’d be best coming from you. I suppose it would be good to have a meeting on Tuesday night to go over the main points to get across during the press conference.” Harry smiled at her, though was sure it looked wan. How was he going to fit everything he needed to do in?

“Sure. 8pm as normal?” She nodded and then gave him a quick hug with a concerned look before bidding both him and Tom goodbye and, like Kingsley, stepping through the green flames. Harry looked at Tom. “Alright, looks like I’m going to be occupied for at least the next hour. Shall we have a duel after that? I need to get rid of all this frustration if I’m going to be any good this week.”

“Of course, master,” Tom swiftly agreed, getting to his feet.

“Oh, and Tom?”

“Yes, master?”

“Maybe don’t mention to anyone that you’ve been allowed to use magic. Actually, you have my permission to lie to anyone other than me about your use of magic, if you think it is appropriate, _including_ if I’ve ordered you to speak honestly. OK?” Tom bowed his head briefly. It didn’t escape Harry’s notice that he was going to use the very loophole he’d explained to Hermione as a way to keep them both out of trouble.

“I understand, master.” Then, when Harry didn’t say anything more, he disappeared out of the door.

XXX

By the time Harry was finished his letters, he _really_ needed that duel. People like Neville and the other two boys from Gryffindor were easy enough to write to: they knew each other well enough to not need any fancy words of reassurance or promise. For the others though, especially people he didn’t know well like Susan, Padma and Blaise… Well, there were a few balls of scrap parchment on his desk which witnessed to his failed attempts.

Finally he was done, though, and reached up to stretch. Walking towards the door, he wondered where Tom was. Then, as he walked through the door, he felt a sensation like spider-webs trail against his skin and break. Frowning, he waved his hand to try and catch them, but he couldn’t feel anything. A moment later, Tom arrived. Harry turned to him.

“Have you cleaned this area recently?” Tom looked confused.

“Yes, master. Two days ago.” Harry’s frown deepened.

“Well, I suppose it’s possible for spiders to have spun webs in two days…” he murmured to himself, “but we go in and out of this door all the time, so I don’t really understand…” Tom interrupted his thoughts.

“You felt spider-webs, master?” Harry nodded absently, still thinking about the mystery. “Perhaps you felt magic,” his slave suggested. The thought was so surprising that Harry whipped his head around to stare at the man.

“Felt magic? Like you do?” Then he suddenly felt suspicious. “Wait, if I maybe felt magic, did you cast something on the door?” Tom waved his hand.

“A mere alarm charm. You said earlier that you wanted to have a duel after you’d finished writing your letters. I didn’t know when that would be, so instead of constantly coming to check, or forcing you to come and find me, I cast some magic on the door to tell me when you left the room.” Harry narrowed his eyes at his slave.

“I could have just called you,” he reminded Tom. The man grimaced.

“You could have, master,” he agreed neutrally. “But if you felt the sensation of cobwebs as you left the room, I would suspect you’ve started to be able to sense magic.” Well, that was good, wasn’t it? Harry was just confused about _how_ it could suddenly be happening – he’d made a mental note to ask Tom to teach him about it, but with everything that had happened, he just hadn’t had the time.

“Why now?” was all he asked in the end. Tom looked thoughtful.

“It could be several reasons,” he started, the familiar teaching note entering his voice. “Perhaps you have been unconsciously practising the skill during our duels, especially as time has moved on and our casting has become faster and higher-level. Your non-verbal has been improving significantly, as has your casting in general. This may be indicative of you being more able to feel the currents of magic. Alternatively, perhaps having realised that the possibility of ‘feeling magic’ exists, your subconscious has been attempting to do so, without you really trying.” He shrugged elegantly. “In the end, does it really matter _why_? Now that you are starting to develop it, you should continue practising where you can: it’s a useful skill to have. Apart from enabling you to feel wards, it is the first step to being able to cast wandless magic.” Harry’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Really? You think I could learn to cast wandless magic?” he asked eagerly. If there was one thing he’d always envied that Tom could do, it was how easily he seemed to be able to cast without a wand. Merlin knew Harry would be helpless if his wand was taken away – and that brought up far too many memories of the war and of his life _before_ the war which he’d really rather not think about. Tom shrugged.

“I don’t see why not. You’re clearly powerful enough, and you most certainly have the will – all you need is the control. The latter is improved by the kind of casting which is required by non-verbal magic. So no, I don’t see any reason why, with a bit of practice, you couldn’t cast the spells from at least the first few years of Hogwarts, if not all of the spells taught at Hogwarts, like me.” Harry nodded, slightly disbelievingly, but decided he’d definitely give it a go at some point. Not now, however.

“Alright, well, I guess we’ll see about that later. For now, let’s go to the duelling room.” Tom inclined his head and stepped back so Harry could precede him up the stairs.

Within a few minutes, they were both deeply engaged in the duel, casting spells furiously at each other. For a moment, Harry allowed himself to luxuriate in the knowledge of how much he’d progressed since their first duel – Tom was allowed to use almost all of his legal repertoire by this point, though with the addition of both the Cruciatus and the Imperius, since Harry thought it was good practice to be able to throw off both of them. The Avada Kedavra, however, was too risky. In fact, he suspected that he wouldn’t actually be able to even order Tom to use it – previous experience had taught them that even if Harry ordered Tom to do something which could pose immediate risk to his master, he was unable to do it. Actually, Harry still felt a bit of remorse over that – Tom had been punished to the point of unconsciousness as soon as he had tried to do it, but when he didn’t attempt to cast the spell, he was punished for not following his master’s order.

Harry was pulled back into the duel as a blue spell that looked like the Imperius came at him. He dodged to the side to avoid it, only to realise he’d stepped right into the path of another spell, hidden by the Unforgiveable. It crashed into him, but Harry was surprised when it didn’t seem to have any immediate impact on him. Feeling slightly concerned, but immediately distracted by the next flurry of spells coming at him, he continued fighting.

Tom was really putting a lot of effort into this, he realised. More effort than he should have, actually. Was he trying to actually hurt Harry? Punish him with the only means he had at his disposal for what Harry had done to him the day before? How dare he?! He was the slave in this relationship; he should be _grateful_ to Harry for being as lenient as he had been. Using _punire_ was nothing in comparison to what most, if not all, other slave masters would have done to such a badly-behaved slave. With a sense of rising rage, Harry realised that the anger he had thought was spent, really wasn’t.

Looking at Tom, his eyes caught on that red gaze, alight with anger and insanity. And was his skin gaining a waxy hint again? Had he already been casting dark arts, just in the few hours he’d had access to his magic?! No! No, Harry wouldn’t let Voldemort rise again. His breath hissing harshly through his teeth, he glared at Voldemort standing across from him, his trademark snarl painted across his face, the dark lord looking to be on the edge of a cackle as he sent _crucios_ Harry’s way. If he let it get any further, he would start sending out Killing curses, Harry knew it.

“Stop! _Expelliarmus_!” he shouted and grinned savagely as that pale yew wand was struck from his hand. Casting a quick follow up hex which knocked Voldemort to his knees, Harry stalked towards him and struck him _hard_ across the face, sending him to the floor, blood trickling from a split lip. He didn’t get up, and in that moment, the haze of anger and fear which had been clouding Harry’s thoughts lifted just enough for him to see _Tom_.

The horror and denial which hit Harry like a lightning bolt was enough for him to forcefully rip through the rest of feelings enveloping him and controlling his actions, and clear his head. Once more, Tom was Tom. Unchanged, except now sporting a split lip, a rapidly darkening cheekbone, and ruffled hair. Harry took a step back in disgust at himself, dropping his wand to clatter on the floor.

“What…? I…but…?” he couldn’t find the words, sinking instead to his knees, staring at the man he’d just _hurt for no reason_. But he’d been so…so angry. So fearful… “I’m sorry,” he said, unable to marshal his thoughts to do anything more than apologise. “I’m _so sorry_ ,” he continued. He’d just…he’d just hit a man. A man on his knees. His slave. His _helpless_ slave.

Images flashed across his mind, memories of being a child and feeling the brutal backhand of his uncle; being spun to the ground feeling like he wanted to vomit at the disorientation. He felt like being sick now, but it was nothing to do with disorientation. He looked at his hands and saw the slightest smear of blood on one of them. That was it.

Turning to the side, he _did_ vomit, tears coming to his eyes as the acrid substance forced its way up his throat and through his mouth. Shaking, trembling, he felt like he was about to collapse into the mess, but then a hand came around from behind and pulled him against a firm chest. The mess on the floor vanished and the taste disappeared from his mouth. He only realised he was crying when he felt a drop hit his arm.

“Master, sh,” Tom’s baritone voice crooned in his ear, another arm coming around him to pull him back into a hug. Harry just cried silent tears, unresponsive. All he could do was stare at his hands: all he could see were the hands of his uncle.

XXX

Tom didn’t know for how long they sat there. Long enough for the pain in his lip and cheek to subside to a dull ache, at least. Long enough for him to marvel at how good Harry felt in his arms. Long enough for guilt to permeate every inch of his body as he felt the silent tears of his master drip on his arm; as trembling racked his body. When the guilt peaked, he couldn’t stay silent any longer.

“Master,” he started, his own voice wavering slightly. Clearing it, he tried again. “Master…it’s not your fault.” There was a long pause before his master spoke.

“How could it not be? I hit you completely undeservedly in anger when you were _helpless_. I…you hadn’t even done anything. I’m no better than…than _him_.” Tom didn’t know who ‘ _him_ ’ was supposed to signify, but he recognised the tone. It was mixed disgust, anger…fear. And he knew that whoever it was supposed to refer to, that person had hurt Harry _a lot_. Swallowing, he pushed past his own fear – his master needed him to be brave, to own up to his actions now.

“It _is_ my fault. I…I caused this.” It seemed like a long moment for the words to register, but when they did, Harry pulled himself out of the hold, shifting and twisting until he faced his slave. Tom met his eyes, but immediately flicked them downwards, unable to hold that gaze. It was too full of emotion: misery, horror, fear…and suspicion.

“Tom…” Harry started slowly. “What did you _do_?” Tom gulped again.

“I…I cast an _augendae affectus_ ,” he managed to get out.

“That spell…” Harry breathed. “What does it do?” he asked, his voice suddenly hard.

“It enhances emotions. In this case anger-“

“And fear,” Harry finished. Tom chanced a look up to Harry’s face and immediately looked down again: it looked like it had been carved from stone. “Why?” Tom didn’t do him the disservice of pretending not to understand the question.

“I needed visible marks on me for the inquiry,” he admitted in a rush. “And I knew you wouldn’t give them to me.”

“So you manipulated the situation so that I would be _forced_ to give them to you,” Harry concluded, his voice unreadable. Tom just nodded miserably. There was another long silence. Then, “Get out.”

“Master?” Tom asked, lifting his eyes to meet Harry’s, his stomach dropping as he saw the blazing anger in them…and behind the anger, hurt. And it was the latter which made him feel like his insides were being scraped away by a rusty blade.

“Get. Out.” Still, Tom hesitated, slowly rising to his feet, but wondering if it was the best thing to leave his master in this state. “Tom,” Harry said with forced patience, glaring up at him from their role-reversed positions. “I am on the knife’s edge of punishing you in a way which I _know_ I will regret later. You’ve done enough. I don’t want to see your face any longer. Get. Out.” With a pain in his chest that he didn’t understand, Tom finally obeyed his master’s command, turning and almost running out of the room. He didn’t know why tears were pricking at his own eyes.

XXX

Left alone, Harry shuffled sideways until his back was pressed against the wall. Lifting his legs and winding his arms around them, he buried his face into his knees and let his tears drip down his nose and through the space between his legs. Why? Why did this feel so much like a betrayal? It was just a spell, no different from the Imperius, really. He let Tom use the Imperius because it was good practice to throw it off, to dodge it. Why was this such a big deal?

But it wasn’t just a spell. It wasn’t the spell at all, actually, he realised. It was the use Tom had put it to. Tom had completely ignored his wishes, his clear statement that he didn’t want to just hurt Tom for the sake of hurting him, no matter what others thought about it. He hadn’t directly disobeyed Harry, but he _had_ acted in a way that he surely knew had been against Harry’s wishes. He’d manipulated Harry into a position where he’d acted, of his own volition, against all principles he held. After what Harry had gone though in his Hogwarts years, with Dumbledore? He _hated_ being manipulated, being forced.

And worst of all? He’d made Harry think that he was turning into Uncle Vernon.

That was really the killer. Harry had heard that children from abusive backgrounds were more likely to then perpetrate abuse in their future. He would never admit that he’d had an abusive childhood to others – what was the point, after all, and it just gave the Dursleys more power over him, if only in the way others reacted to him. But still, he had come to the realisation, years after most of the events, that he _had_ been an abused child. Like Tom.

He sighed.

Yes, like Tom who had taken out his hurt and anger over his childhood on hundreds, thousands of people. Harry had always been determined that he would break the pattern. It was one reason he refused to drink to excess; why he was quite hands-off with the collar: he was afraid of going too far, of not knowing his limits. Of not knowing if he’d crossed the line between punishment and abuse.

Sure, he’d do it if he had to – he had discovered a capacity for ruthlessness during the war…but he was _so glad_ that Tom hadn’t pushed him into the role, because he was scared what he would have become. And now? Tom _had_ pushed him into that role, as surely as if he’d fought against Harry with all his will from the start.

Harry sighed again.

Another difficult thing here was that…his intentions had been good. Harry got where he was coming from. Kingsley had thought that the punishment was too light; the Ministry people definitely would question him about it if there was no visible evidence of punishment. No doubt if they thought Tom hadn’t been punished enough, they would try to impose some sort of consequence of their own, and _that_ was a can of worms Harry would rather leave unopened. Much as Harry hated to admit it, Tom had had a point, in as far as appearances went. Harry still disagreed that more actual punishment was necessary, but when he considered the point they were trying to make…?

He grimaced.

What was he going to do now? There had to be consequences for Tom’s actions. He’d done something which was clearly against Harry’s wishes. But he’d done it with intentions to make things easier for both of them… Well, one thing was certain – he didn’t want to _see_ Tom for the rest of that day, even if it meant missing supper.

Getting up, he ran a still-shaking hand over his face and wiped away the tear tracks which had started to dry. Casting around, he spotted his wand on the floor where he’d dropped it. Trudging over to it, he picked it up and then cast a drying charm on the wet patch he’d created. Spotting Tom’s pale wand where it had fallen when he’d cast the Expelliarmus, he frowned and picked it up. It was tempting to take Tom’s magic privileges away for this little incident…but on the other hand, the problem hadn’t actually been his ability to use magic – it had been his manipulative tendencies that had caused this. Taking away his magic so soon after giving it to him, when it wasn’t even the problem, just felt cruel.

In the end, he just decided to take it with him – he’d give it back when he could next stomach seeing Tom. He went to his desk in the sitting room and set to work, determinedly finishing an assignment for his Auror training. After that, he’d have a look through his accounts in preparation for the meeting with his goblin bank manager the next day. He didn’t want to be left to think – thinking would just lead his thoughts down the same tracks as before, and he already felt too bruised for that.

XXX

Dinner time came around and Harry hadn’t appeared. Tom dished the food up on the plates and put them on the table, placing Harry’s under a warming charm. Then he and Draco exchanged a look.

“Do you think we should wait?” Draco asked tentatively. Tom shook his head, already digging in.

“It’s not the first time he’s been late to a meal – he’s probably finishing something,” he informed the blond, though had a sinking sensation in his stomach again. It was true that Harry sometimes got caught up in something and was a few minutes late, but it had never happened after an incident like the one they’d had earlier. Not that they _had_ had any incidents like the one earlier.

Tom felt warring senses of guilt and justification – Harry had been being too soft, too unwilling to face up to what was necessary to do. Tom had even _offered_ , much as it had taken all of his will to spit out the words. He knew he’d messed things up for both Harry and the anti-abuse movement, and Harry being ordered to give further punishment to his slave would just compound the problem. Plus, Tom would rather his master’s punishment over the Ministry’s – from what he’d read, they were both brutal and _bloody_. He shivered as he thought of a whip wielded by some sadistic hand, carving crimson furrows in his skin.

No, better that his master gave him a few blows just to prove that further punishment had taken place. He could even heal them after the inquiry if seeing the evidence disturbed him so much. Tom knew that he should be grateful for the lenience of his master, but if it led to further, worse punishment, he couldn’t be thankful.

Harry still hadn’t come. Tom and Draco exchanged another look and the red-eyed slave stood up from the table sighing.

“I’ll go and remind him about food,” he said. Draco nodded and turned back to his own plate. Tom walked up the stairs out of the kitchen and along the corridor. As expected, his master was in the sitting room, at his desk. Tom paused by the door, stopping just outside so that the collar wouldn’t require him to kneel, as was his habit.

“Master,” he said quietly. There was no response, so he tried again, slightly louder.

“I thought I’d made myself plain,” Harry responded, not looking up from his work, his voice so, so cold…and underneath it, the heart-rending sound of _hurt_. Tom swallowed, feeling a sensation of a hand reaching into his chest and clutching his heart and lungs in an icy grip and freezing him in place. “I don’t want to speak to you; I don’t want to _see_ you.” He fell silent again, the stiffness in his neck and the carven expression on his face the only indications that he was still aware of Tom’s presence.

Tom opened his mouth as if to say something, though frankly, he had no idea what, and then closed it again. Bowing his head slightly, he turned around and went back to the kitchen. Draco looked up as he entered, a curious look on his face.

“Is Mast-H-Harry coming?” Tom shook his head, feeling numb. Harry had just…he’d just turned Tom away. That had never happened, not even in the beginning. He’d…it was like he’d only acknowledged Tom because he knew that if he didn’t his slave would just persist in trying to get his attention. And his voice… It was worse that it was so cold – an inferno was better than ice. He’d prefer Harry was furious with him than…than just ignoring him. And why did it feel like he’d rather stab himself than hear that hurt in his master’s voice again? “Why not?” Draco asked.

“I think I did something,” he admitted after a pause. Draco just looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Something _else_?” he asked, a note of exasperation in his voice. “Haven’t you done enough recently? Is that where the bruise on your face came from?” Tom looked away, shame and guilt mingling within him…because it was true, wasn’t it? He’d gone behind his master’s back to research the collar, and then the consequences of that discovery had led to the whole incident the day before. Then he’d compounded the error by proceeding to destroy his master’s belongings, _attack_ his master… Even after all of that, he’d argued with his master and then, when he didn’t agree with his master’s ruling, he’d manipulated a situation to force the result he thought was necessary.

And he’d been arrogant enough, prideful enough to feel justified in his actions. His actions which had almost purely been for selfish reasons had hurt his master – had made Harry vomit and cry. He still didn’t understand why, but did he need to? Wasn’t it enough that he’d hurt his master multiple times that weekend – physically, emotionally, his reputation… Looking down at his plate of food, he realised he couldn’t eat any more. Especially not when his master wasn’t eating. Maybe he could do something about that.

“Draco,” he started, his voice thick with the shame, guilt and self-loathing which struggled to be contained. The blond just looked at him. “Can you take the plate to Master, please?” he asked. Draco gave him another curious look, but nodded and rose from the table, picking up the plate and its accompanying cutlery. “And,” Tom said, as he reached the door, “please tell him that I’m…that I’m _really_ sorry and will accept any punishment he deems suitable.” The other slave gave him a long, hard look, but finally nodded and disappeared out of the kitchen.

“He doesn’t want to see you,” Draco told him, when he returned a few minutes later.

“I know,” Tom murmured in reply. “But you told him I’m sorry?” Draco nodded.

“I did. I told him you wanted to be punished, too,” Tom frowned at him

“I didn’t say I _wanted_ to be punished,” he objected. Draco just stared at him, his look conveying his thoughts of ‘seriously?’ quite clearly. Tom looked away. “I didn’t,” he protested again softly, not convinced even in his own mind.

A couple of hours later, he had to concede that maybe Draco had had a point. He’d been restless since dinner, unable to settle with a book, the feelings of knowing he’d hurt his master, knowing he’d disappointed him to the extent that he couldn’t even stand the sight of Tom anymore…he couldn’t just go back to reading about interesting magic when he knew his master was in the sitting room, still affected by what had happened.

In the end, he went to bed far earlier than normal, having been reduced to voluntarily _cleaning by hand_ , because it was the only thing that settled him slightly, something inside him knowing that his master wanted him to clean, and hoping that maybe he would be pleased if he knew his slave was doing it without being ordered to do so.

XXX

While eating breakfast the next morning, Harry was interrupted by an owl. He untied the letter from its leg, his stomach clenching at the sight of the Ministry’s logo. He’d been expecting this, he told himself as he cracked open the seal. Scanning through the letter, he saw that it was as Kingsley had warned him – he was being summoned to a Ministry inquiry. Since it was the second report made about the same slave, he had to go to the office itself, rather than inspectors visiting him. Plus, he had to bring the slave in question with him. He grimaced at the idea.

The date was Tuesday the 18th April 2000 and the time was 10:30am. That was a pain – he’d either have to bring Tom with him for the start of the day, which he wasn’t inclined to do, or quickly come home to pick him up and thereby miss _more_ of his training… Sighing, he dropped the letter on the table for Tom to read later, once he got up.

The thought of his slave’s actions yesterday still made something twinge inside him…Harry was introspective enough to realise that the whole reason Tom’s manipulations had hurt was because he was coming to _trust_ the former dark lord. _Stupid_ , he told himself angrily. He’d known when this whole mess started that Tom was prone to manipulations and testing – it was one reason why he’d insisted on clear master/slave boundaries to begin with. But somehow…it had come as a surprise when it had actually _happened_.

Harry sighed again. He had spent a good portion of the previous evening thinking about it all, despite his best attempts to stay busy. He was going to be missing enough of his studies this week – that day with the goblins at 5pm, the next day with the Ministry enquiry, the day after with the press conference… He didn’t need to be distracted as well. No, he’d deal with Tom when he came back, but he would focus on his studies at Hogwarts for now.

XXX

“Bloodfang,” Harry greeted, walking into the room. “May your axe blades stay sharp and well-used. How are you?”

“Mr Potter,” greeted the goblin in return, flashing the dark-red fang that had clearly been his namesake. “My axe blades have been well used this week, indeed, thank you. And you?” Harry chuckled slightly.

“As usual, my axe blades, not being existent, have been unused, but I’ve been crossing verbal wands with not a few wizards, so there’s that.” The goblin grinned, revealing his fang once more.

“Indeed. Even here we’ve been hearing rumours of your latest campaign. Is it for that reason that you organised this meeting?”

“In part,” Harry allowed, “but I wish to get an idea of how my accounts are doing first.” The goblin nodded, pulling out several files. Tracing his gnarled finger down a few of the lines and looked back up at Harry.

“Well, you turned a good profit for last quarter – 7% of your total investments on average. After paying the necessary tax, you’re left with slightly more than seven hundred thousand galleons to either further invest or add to your liquid assets.” Harry considered it.

“How many galleons do I currently have in my accounts?” Bloodfang once more traced that line of figures.

“Following your instructions to only maintain 10% of your net worth in liquid assets…you have just short of one point four million galleons in your main account. Harry nodded. Not much changed from his previous meeting – since he’d left the standing order to reinvest the income from his assets into new investments, he wasn’t surprised his liquid assets hadn’t changed much.

It had been a great surprise to find that, after everything, he was one of the richest wizards in the UK. The Potters had been well-off, but not _rich_ exactly. They had had enough invested to ensure that they didn’t have to work, and could live off their investments, but their net worth had been less than five hundred thousand galleons. Less, in fact, than Harry had just made in a single quarter.

The money from the enslaved Death Eaters had accounted for a large chunk of what he now had, Voldemort having surprisingly amassed quite a sum in his years alive. In a quiet moment, Harry had asked Tom exactly how he’d gone from being a penniless orphan to a millionaire in seventy years, especially since he’d been a wraith for thirteen of them. Tom’s answer had been that first, he had done some rather unscrupulous things which would probably have him arrested in ten different countries if they knew what had happened. Next, he’d made some careful investments with what he’d rather unethically…obtained. Finally, he’d explained with a rather smug look on his face, he’d tithed his followers.

Harry had been rather surprised about that – the Death Eaters had actually _paid_ to kneel and kiss the hem of his robes, and be _crucio_ ’d? Apparently, yes, and happily so. Tom had explained that for some of the followers, it had actually been a point of pride as the amount they were tithed was used as a status symbol among those of the same rank. Harry had just shaken his head in disbelief and left the conversation there. Then, of course, there was the amount from the Malfoy accounts which had once been in the top ten rich list of the Wizarding world. The Lestranges had been a lot less, but Harry suspected that was because, apart from killing Sirius, none of the Lestranges had really affected Harry personally.

However, the bulk of the money had come from the Black accounts. Apparently the Blacks had been right to be proud of their legacy – careful money management had seen the accounts rise to a very, very healthy level, and despite Arcturus Black dying in 1991 and the accounts not having had much management since, they’d still been ticking over as investments trickled in.

Of course, Harry had paid about half of what he’d received from the Death Eaters and Voldemort to the goblins as damages before it even touched his accounts. Frankly, he considered it money well-spent considering the relationship he’d been able to build with Bloodfang. He’d learned a lot about the goblins, but the most important thing was knowing what goblins most liked: fighting and earning gold.

Apparently, being an account manager, especially for a prestigious account like his, was something that brought regular challengers to Bloodfang’s doorstep, after, of course, having fought a bloody path through all the goblins who had wanted to take the position in the first place. The reason? Bloodfang earned a sizeable commission off the profits Harry made. It was a good system, he had to admit – the goblin was motivated to help the wizard because it was mutual interest. It had certainly been a life-saver for Harry, who had had almost no idea of what to do with his money, never having had any sort of training in money management.

He’d done some research, though, as well as asking Bloodfang for advice. As a result, a full 90% of his net worth was in investments – a mixed portfolio of (primarily silent) partnerships in businesses, real estate and stocks. Some of these were in the Wizarding world, but a good portion were in the muggle world too – it was more dynamic and both he and Bloodfang had decided it was worth the risk.

The goblin pushed two portfolios over to him.

“Here are the investments which aren’t doing so well, and which you might like to consider selling,” he told Harry, pointing at the portfolio on the right. Then, pointing to the one on the left, he continued. “These are some new ventures which I thought you might be interested in. They fit your basic brief of supporting either the rebuilding effort, or helping people get back on their feet after the war.” Harry nodded, taking both and slipping them into his briefcase. He’d look at them later when he had time. Time. He didn’t have _time_ anymore, he thought, feeling both amused and exhausted at the thought. And he still had Tom to deal with, he continued, before pushing it out of his mind. He’d come up with a plan – this wasn’t the time to think about it.

“OK, thanks,” Harry told his account manager. “Any other changes I need to know about?” Bloodfang slid another piece of parchment over to him.

“Here’s a summary. The main changes to note are that the refurbishment of both that apartment block you decided to buy in Knockturn Alley and the manor house has been completed. The manor house is being put up for sale, and the apartment block is ready to be rented out. Do you have any requirements about potential tenants?” Harry considered it. Maybe this was something else he could put in place for the former slaves.

“I don’t care much about turning a profit on the apartment block,” he decided, ignoring the questioning look from Bloodfang. “Make it available at as low a rent as possible, please, but only allow those in who _really_ need it.” The goblin nodded slowly, his fingers tapping on the desk surface in what Harry had come to learn was a gesture of thoughtfulness.

“Any requirements of being human?” Harry shrugged.

“No?”

“Werewolves, vampires…” Harry shrugged again.

“As long as they keep to themselves and don’t cause a nuisance to the neighbours, sure. Actually,” he started, a thought coming to mind. “If you think werewolves are likely to stay, maybe make sure the basement is converted into a safe area they can use for full moons.” Harry hesitated. “But I would like you to make a special effort to seek out those slaves who have been released and offer them it as a place to stay, at least until they get on their feet. If they refuse, it’s not my problem, but I’d like them to have the offer, if we have spaces available.” The goblin was outright staring at him. “What?”

“You are an interesting wizard, Harry Potter,” Bloodfang said eventually. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Is that a compliment or an insult, Bloodfang?” The goblin just grinned toothily at him and didn’t answer.

“Very well, I shall inform the realtors of your wishes. Anything else, Mr Potter?”

“Yes, actually,” Harry told him, and then hesitated. “What is Gringotts’ policy on offering loans?” The goblin eyed him.

“You don’t surely propose to need a loan?” he asked, his voice incredulous. Harry shook his head.

“That wasn’t what I meant. I’d like to _offer_ loans.” The goblin went absolutely still. Then, his tongue flicking out briefly, almost like a snake’s, he started moving again.

“To most, I would reply that Gringotts does not tolerate other lenders. You however…I am interested in what lies behind your question.” Harry nodded slowly. That wasn’t a ‘no’, at least. He could work with that.

“I would like to offer loans to recently released slaves at low rates of interest, to offer them the opportunity to pursue education that will enable them to get a job.” Bloodfang gave him a long, slow look and then stood up. Harry started standing automatically, but the goblin waved him down.

“Sit, sit. I will be back shortly,” he said, and then disappeared, leaving Harry staring after him.

Shortly, he had said. In fact, it was half an hour later when he finally reappeared. With him was an old-looking, sharp-eyed goblin. Harry tucked the portfolio he had started reading back into his briefcase, and sat up in his chair.

“Mr Potter, this is Bank Manager Ragnork. I have conveyed your request to him.” In deference, Harry stood and bowed his head to the Bank Manager. Conscious of what he’d picked up from Bloodfang, he didn’t put his hand out to shake, instead offering a formal goblin greeting.

“Well met, Bank Manager Ragnork. May your gold and your enemies’ blood flow like rivers.” It was only his experience with his account manager which enabled him to see the slight glint of pleasure enter the old goblin’s eyes.

“A wizard with manners, what a change,” the goblin observed, his voice sounding like rocks had been crushed to release it. “Well met, Voldemort Vanquisher. May your wand never be idle.” Huh. Apparently he’d made a decent impression – that Ragnork had replaced the traditional ‘axe’ with ‘wand’ was actually a compliment in itself. “Account Manager Bloodfang informed me of your request. It is certainly not something we have allowed in the past. In fact, there are several wizards out there who serve as witness to our strict rules governing lending.” Harry wasn’t at all surprised. “However…Account Manager Bloodfang has indicated to me that your interests may not be strictly about profit. The concept is interesting enough to me to require a more detailed explanation face to face. So, proceed,” he instructed, gesturing languidly with one hand. Harry nodded and launched into his explanation. He repeated what he had said to Bloodfang and then continued with a more personal plea.

“Essentially, I feel…slightly responsible for the situation in which these people find themselves, as it was my choice of how to end the war which led to it.” Ragnork looked at him and then stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“You intend only to offer loans to former slaves? No others?”

“Yes, Bank Manager.” There was another pause.

“What is the time duration of these loans?” Harry thought about it – the duration was something he hadn’t really considered.

“I suppose…until it’s paid back? I wouldn’t require a specific monthly payment, but I suppose that if they never paid it back, I’d have to find out why.”

“Why would this make a difference?” Of course, Harry thought to himself, goblins.

“If the person had tried their best to find a job, but simply hadn’t been able to, I wouldn’t want to penalise them for it. If they’d mismanaged their funds or were trying to take advantage of me, I would.”

“I see.” There was another long pause. “To be concerned with the fates of one’s enemies comes either from a position of strength…or foolishness,” the old goblin commented. “I wonder which one you stand in, Mr Potter.” Harry gave him a wry smile.

“Probably a bit of both,” he admitted. Ragnork bared his teeth in what Harry had learnt was an approving smile.

“Well said, young wizard. Now, I understand your motivation; why should Gringotts accede to your request?” Harry _had_ thought about this and had two ideas to offer.

“First, I am proposing very low rates of interest to only a small portion of the population – I am not going to make much of a profit out of this, and I do not offer competition to you, because the people I am concerned with would never be able to repay your loans and in fact, would be ultimately considered a loss of your investment, should you offer them one.”

“Hah, you set yourself up as a ‘saviour’ of our gold, do you?” The old goblin seemed amused rather than angry at his statement, so Harry took it as a win. “Go on.”

“Second, if these people do not have access to education, they will probably end up as beggers or worse on the streets of Knockturn Alley; of no benefit to anyone, least of all Gringotts. If they have an education and start earning money, no doubt they will wish to deposit their earnings with the only magical bank. Thus you will earn vault fees, if not further profit assuming they earn enough to make investments as I have.” Now he’d finished, Harry felt nervous. This was where the scheme either worked…or fell through completely.

“Tell me,” Ragnork finally said after another long, thoughtful pause, “do you propose to finance all these loans yourself?” Harry shrugged.

“Pretty much. I was thinking that I could set up a charity and run the loans through that, but the majority, if not the entirety of the funding will probably come from me. To be honest, not all the former slaves will need loans, but I would like to be able to provide for those that do.” The old goblin nodded slowly, closing his eyes for a few moments. The tension in the room rose, both Bloodfang and Harry watching Ragnork.

“I have made my decision,” the old goblin finally announced, opening his eyes. “You shall be allowed to give your loans through your charity.” Harry couldn’t stop the grin from breaking out on his face. “However,” Ragnork continued, “there are some conditions.” Weren’t there always, Harry thought with a mental eye-roll and a sigh. He didn’t express them, though.

“Yes, Bank Manager Ragnork?” he asked politely, instead. The old goblin nodded slowly.

“First, your interest rate shall be on par with inflation. You shall not profit one iota from this.”

“Fine,” Harry agreed. It wasn’t like he needed the money, after all.

“Second, the amount to be lent shall be agreed within the first year of the slave’s release, and it must be held in Gringotts. All administration shall be done through us.”

“Agreed,” Harry said. Again, not a problem as far as he could gather.

“Lastly, you shall pay a fee to Gringotts of five hundred galleons per loan for our time spent managing it.”

“Two hundred,” Harry countered immediately. He knew the goblins always liked to give a crazy figure to begin with. If the wizard didn’t haggle, it was seen as weakness, foolishness, or arrogance. Ragnork bared his teeth in a slight grin.

“Four hundred,” he sent back.

“Two hundred and fifty.”

“Three hundred.”

“Agreed,” said Harry. The old goblin grinned more widely at him.

“You are an interesting wizard, Mr Potter. I can see why Account Manager Bloodfang fought so hard on your behalf.” Startled, Harry darted a look at Bloodfang, unsurprised when he saw a smear of green that had previously been unnoticeable. When Ragnork said ‘fight’, it didn’t shock Harry in the least that he had probably meant it literally. Apparently that’s what his account manager had been doing in that half an hour he’d been away. “I will keep an eye on you.” Harry wasn’t sure if that was meant as a compliment or a threat. Probably both. “To your health and wealth, Mr Potter.”

“And to you and yours,” Harry replied with another slight bow of his head, pulled out of his thoughts by the formal ending. He watched as the old goblin left and the door was closed after him.

“Well done, Mr Potter,” Bloodfang told him as soon as they were alone once more. “You have succeeded in gaining something no other wizard has – Gringotts approval for giving loans.” Harry sat down heavily in the chair, the relief of the stress he had felt making him suddenly tired.

“Yes…Thank you for the help,” he told the goblin. The magical creature just looked at him, and then nodded once.

“You’re different from most wizards, Mr Potter. I’m honoured to be your account manager.”

Not sure what to say after that, Harry eventually just nodded and then directed the conversation onto what formalities had to be accomplished before he could actually start handing out loans.

XXX

Opening the door to his house, Harry took a moment before walking in. The day – the week, the _year_ – already had him beat and he _still_ had to deal with the whole situation from yesterday. He was starting to regret putting off dealing with it the previous evening, but…he had still been too raw, too hurt. He’d have probably ended up doing or saying something he regretted later. Sighing, he stepped forward, dropping his bag off in the sitting room before heading to the kitchen, something heavy sitting in his gut.

Entering the kitchen, he stopped dead and surveyed the scene with a frown on his face. Why were there only two plates on the table…and where was Tom? Flicking his eyes around the room, he finally spotted Tom…kneeling beside his chair, his head down. Walking forward, he stopped just in front of his kneeling slave.

“Tom, why are you down there…and where’s your food?” Tom murmured something softly, but it was too quiet for Harry to hear. Sighing in both frustration and tiredness, Harry collapsed into his chair and reached out to gently weave his hand through Tom’s hair. Using his hold to guide Tom’s head back so he could see his slave’s eyes, he tried to meet Tom’s gaze. The red-eyed man seemed to be determined to avoid eye-contact, though. Well, enough of that. “Tom, look at me,” Harry instructed, unable to stop some of his irritation bleeding through. Tom’s eyes shot to his and Harry was surprised by the depth of emotion in them. They were practically swimming with misery and guilt, not a hint of the arrogance or self-justification Harry had seen in them the previous day. Slightly shaken, Harry repeated his questions.

“Master, I…” Tom flicked his eyes away and then back up to meet Harry’s gaze as if reminded that that was what his master had ordered. “I’m _sorry_. I didn’t…I didn’t want to…to _hurt_ you, but I realise that I _did_. So…” he trailed off.

“That still doesn’t answer my questions,” Harry reminded him. “Where’s your food?” Once more, Tom’s eyes flicked away and then back again.

“I don’t deserve it,” he answered finally, his voice sounding completely wrecked. Once more, Harry felt a pang of regret at not dealing with this situation the previous day, or that morning at the latest. He hadn’t intended on Tom punishing _himself_. Actually, he hadn’t really thought of the possibility at all. He’d thought that Tom would just continue justifying his actions to himself until Harry discussed it with him. Heck, he’d thought that even _after_ he’d talked it through, Tom would probably not understand and Harry would have to continue watching out for well-meaning manipulations as much as at the beginning he’d been watching out for _malicious_ manipulations.

This though…Harry wondered whether Tom had actually decided to accept that he would be a slave for the rest of his life, either consciously or subconsciously. If so that could be the driving force behind this… Maybe this was just the natural continuation of what he’d said the day before – if Harry was angry at him, it wouldn’t be good for him, so he would do whatever he could to ameliorate the situation. He supposed that could make sense. If so, little wonder that, in the absence of a punishment, Tom would take it on his own head to impose one – wasn’t that just exactly what he’d done with the anger-enhancing spell?

Harry sighed. He’d have to nip this in the bud. As much as he didn’t want his slave misbehaving, the idea of having him turn instead into a house-elf who would choose to shut his hands in the oven door in self-punishment over perceived wrong-doing…no. Definitely not. As far as Harry was concerned, he was the master and the collar was his tool. If neither he nor the collar reacted to a situation, it didn’t _need_ reacting to.

“Alright, enough of this,” Harry said finally, a steely note in his voice. “We need to discuss this more, but _after_ dinner. Go and sit on your chair.”

“But master,” Tom started objecting.

“Now.” Harry’s command was unyielding and at its sound, Tom’s eyes widened and he quickly slipped into his chair, Harry releasing his hair just in time. Next, Harry summoned a plate from the cabinet, along with a knife and fork from the drawer and started transferring half the food from his plate onto Tom’s.

“Master…?” asked Tom, seemingly completely confused. Darting a glance across the table, Harry saw a similar flabbergasted expression on Draco’s face at the sight. Ignoring both of them, Harry pushed the plate over to Tom.

“Here. Eat,” he instructed briskly, handing the cutlery over too. Tom opened his mouth, probably to protest in some way, but Harry just fixed him with a hard look. “I don’t want to hear another word. Eat.” Harry could see in his eyes that he was considering defying that order, but eventually he just bowed his head, and started eating his portion. Breathing a silent sigh in relief, because he wasn’t sure how long his patience would have held out, Harry also turned to his plate. After a brief period of staring, he saw Draco doing the same out of the corner of his eye.

By the time he’d finished eating, Harry was feeling a bit better. The meal had been silent after its tumultuous beginning and he’d been grateful for it – the silence had allowed him to gather his thoughts and prepare for the, no doubt, long and difficult conversation waiting for him. Placing his knife and fork down carefully, he saw that Tom and Draco were still eating. Not feeling like waiting for them to finish, he stood up.

“Tom, when you’re finished, join me in the sitting room,” he ordered, moving towards the door.

“Yes, master,” he heard muttered in a downcast tone. He’d just left the room when he heard Draco speak, and the brief exchange made an amused smile play at the corner of his mouth.

“I _told_ you it was a bad idea.”

“Shut up.”

XXX

Tom finished his food slowly, knowing that a _conversation_ , and most likely a punishment, was waiting for him when he had. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to just get it over with or for it never to come. Frankly, he thought that he was leaning towards the first option, especially after the day he’d had.

He hadn’t slept well, his dreams being filled with disturbing images that were enough to wake him at multiple points in the night, but slipped away through his fingers as soon as he tried to recall them when he had awoken. Then, throughout the day, he’d found himself replaying the look on his master’s face as he realised that Tom had cast a spell on him which had controlled him. It had been angry, yes, but worse…he had looked betrayed… _hurt_. And Tom didn’t understand why every time he thought about that moment, the bottom dropped out of his stomach and guilt curdled in his guts.

But understood or not, guilt was what he was feeling, and he didn’t like it. For the first time, he actually started wishing his master would just punish him already, not because he was worried that it would become bottled up and explode in the future, and not because he thought that Harry would be more lenient than the Ministry, for example. No, this time…he wished his master would punish him because he realised it was the only way for him to stop feeling so damned _guilty_. During the day, his thoughts had inexorably been drawn back to that one time he had genuinely offered Harry the chance to punish him, the day Draco had arrived. At the time, he had felt it was needed to clear the air between them…but he remembered how good it had felt to earn his master’s forgiveness, for all that the man hadn’t actually chosen to do it.

After the torture he’d been putting _himself_ through all day, with guilt and self-recrimination, whatever Harry might think of couldn’t be any worse, could it? Well, he’d finished his food, so he guessed he’d be finding out soon enough.

Standing up and putting his plate in the sink, he headed towards the door.

“Good luck,” he heard Draco say behind him, his tone a complex mix of emotions that Tom couldn’t be bothered to sort through. Instead, he just ignored it and walked to the sitting room, feeling slightly as if he was walking towards the gallows.

As expected, Master was at his desk, writing. Tom moved closer, fear gripping his chest once more. Why did this incident feel so much worse than the event that had happened on Saturday? And if he was right, and it _was_ worse, what could he expect in punishment?

 _There’s nothing you can do about it_ , he told himself sharply. _You’re a slave, at your master’s mercy, and that’s all you’ll ever be, now_. Kneeling next to the desk, facing his master’s side, he bowed his head and waited to be acknowledged. It seemed to take an age for Harry to decide that it was time to start the conversation; Tom didn’t know whether he knew how much the anticipation was torturing the slave kneeling at his feet.

“I’m not happy with you,” Harry said, finally setting his quill aside and turning his chair so he was looking directly at Tom’s bowed head.

“I’m sorry, master,” replied Tom miserably – he knew his master wasn’t happy with him: it was patently obvious. And the fact that his master wasn’t happy with him, that he wasn’t just angry but hurt…that was the reason he’d been practically driven to distraction throughout the day.

“Why do you think I’m not happy with you?” Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard Tom’s words.

“Because I cast a spell which controlled your mind,” Tom replied. He understood Harry’s anger – he had hated being controlled by the collar, and that had never actually controlled his mind.

“No, that’s not why,” Harry replied and, in his shock and disbelief, Tom lifted his head to meet Harry’s eyes.

“What?” he breathed, completely confused. But then if not that…?

“Do you think I’d have permitted you to use the Imperius if I was seriously worried about you using mind-controlling magic?” Now that he mentioned it…it was a good point.

“Then master…why…?” Tom wasn’t sure how to ask the question, but fortunately his master seemed to understand it anyway.

“Do you know _why_ I was so opposed to… _putting marks on you_ as Kingsley put it? To hurting you just for the sake of appearances?” Tom thought about it.

“Because you felt I’d already been sufficiently punished?” he ventured, that being the only – crazy – explanation that came to mind.

“That was part of it,” Harry conceded. “But you’re still missing the point.” He paused for a moment, but Tom could tell it was a more a pause to collect his words than something he wanted interrupted, so he waited patiently, still confused. “I know I’ve spoken about the Dursleys to you before.” The Dursleys? Oh yes. The muggle family who had abused Harry as a child. What did they have to do with it? “My uncle…he liked to…to hurt me. He made excuses – said that I had been bad, freakish, disobedient…but the truth that I’ve come to realise since is that…it didn’t matter what I did. He would still have hit me, shouted at me, sent me to my cupboard with no food. He would have done it because he _liked_ it. Because he got something out of hurting someone who was helpless before him.” Tom could tell how difficult this was for Harry to say, not because Harry’s voice was full of emotion, but because it was the opposite. His master was speaking in a detached, neutral tone, as if relating something that had happened to someone else. And slowly, he was starting to get an inkling of _why_ Harry had reacted so badly…and just how badly he’d messed up. “You don’t know how hard I’ve fought to prevent myself from turning into him.” The statement was bald, blunt, and shocking.

“Master, you _couldn’t_ be…like that,” Tom found it necessary to interject. Harry looked at him, and the stark vulnerability in his eyes hit Tom like an arrow in the heart. He looked down, unable to bear its intensity a moment longer.

“Could I not? Gryffindor Golden boy, Saviour… They’re just titles. And not even accurate ones,” Harry told him, his tone bitter. “The war…it changed me. It changed all of us. There were times during it when I couldn’t recognise myself in the monster I was becoming. I tortured Rodolphus Lestrange, you know,” he said suddenly. Tom nodded, looking back up.

“I know,” he said simply. The condition they’d found his Death Eater’s body in had been fairly conclusive as to the ordeal he had gone through before his death. Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard Tom’s interjection.

“Tortured him until he could barely remember his own name, desperately hoping that if I continued for just a few more moments, he would give us _something_ we could use. Useless. And worse?” He looked back at Tom his eyes so, so old. “I realised that there was something in me that _liked_ it. That liked hearing him beg me for mercy. Something savage which drank his screams of pain and purred for more….” He shook his head violently, more reminiscent of a dog shaking off water than a person indicating a negative response. “I saw myself turning into my uncle. And I refused to be like that. It’s one reason I chose the ritual that called on Lady Magic: if the decision was out of my hands, the dark beast inside me wouldn’t be able to affect it.” He waved a descriptive hand. “Look where that got us.” There was another long pause before Harry looked back at Tom and held his gaze with an intensity that Tom couldn’t break away from.

“So yesterday…I couldn’t stomach the idea of just… _beating_ you, simply to give you some obvious marks. But I understand your reasoning, and admit that perhaps you had a point. However, your _way_ of going about it…I don’t care that you managed to land a mind-controlling spell on me in a duel – if I can’t push it off, then I need to work at it until I can. But what I do care about is…you made me think I was truly turning into my abusive uncle, despite everything I’ve done to try to avoid it. And that…that…” He shook his head again and turned away, staring into the fire.

Tom felt like being sick. He…he hadn’t realised. Hadn’t known. But it wasn’t an excuse. What he’d done…

“Master, I’m so, so sorry,” he whispered, knowing the words were not enough, would never be enough, but having to say them regardless. “Please, punish me,” he almost begged, the guilt rising in him like a wave that threatened to drown him in its power.

“Why are you asking me for punishment?” Harry asked, a note of anger in his voice. “If it’s because of the Ministry tomorrow, don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.” Tom shook his head.

“It’s not that, master. I…I can’t stand knowing I hurt you, that I…betrayed your trust. I can’t forgive _myself_ ,” he admitted, feeling like he was baring his heart and asking for Harry to plunge a dagger into it to join the arrow already wedged in there. “I need…I need…” he couldn’t finish the sentence, not sure what he _did_ need.

“You need to feel that you’ve paid for your actions,” Harry said, his eyes narrowed, and Tom almost choked as he managed to get to the heart of Tom’s feelings in such a simple statement.

“Yes…” he said, barely more than a whisper, the shame of his realisation mingling with relief that it was finally voiced.

“Is that why you didn’t make any food for yourself? Why you knelt by my chair for dinner?” Harry asked, his voice and gaze still intent. Tom nodded, avoiding Harry’s eyes, unable to bear it. There was a pause. “Never punish yourself again,” Harry told him with a steely edge to his tone. Tom looked up in surprise.

“Master?”

“As the master, it is _my_ responsibility to decide if your actions deserve chastisement. This whole situation came from you deciding that my punishment for the situation on Saturday wasn’t sufficient, for whatever reason. Next time, just come and talk to me about it instead of forcing the situation, understand?” Tom looked down in shame, realising it was true. He _had_ tried to take control, and had just made the situation worse. Though there was one thing.

“Master…” he started, hesitating. “You…When I raised the issue before, you told me to be silent about it. How could I speak to you when you had commanded me not to?” Harry nodded slowly, his eyes considering.

“That’s true. I will admit that perhaps I dismissed your reasoning too quickly. If you feel that I haven’t understood the advice you’re giving me, then I give you permission to ignore the command to be silent, but only in that situation. I do, however, expect you to accept that if I’m taking responsibility for your actions, I will also take responsibility for any consequences of them.” Maybe, and Tom had to admit that that was the greatest draw of submission to Harry’s will – the ability to be free of guilt, to be free of indecision. If he was following his master’s orders, that was all he had to be concerned about. But…

“If the Ministry dictated a punishment to you because they didn’t feel that yours was sufficient, it wouldn’t be _your_ back that bore the whip,” he pointed out, holding his master’s gaze.

“That was what was driving your concern about having visible marks?” Harry asked. Tom nodded slowly. “I remember having this discussion before, a while back. I remember telling you that if I agreed with the Ministry, I would probably go along with it. If I didn’t…I remember telling you that I would fight for you. Why do you think anything’s changed?” Tom gathered his thoughts, trying to get to the kernel of his fear.

“I suppose…I worry that you might not have a _choice_. And…I worry that maybe…you won’t _want_ to fight for me.” He finished the last in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, almost unable to force it out at all. There was a pause as he stared at his knees, and then he felt his master’s hand reach down to gently lift his chin so he had no choice but to meet his master’s gaze. Harry’s eyes were full of emotion again, but this time it was easier to stand, though just as intense as before. Understanding and some other emotion that he couldn’t name made the emerald orbs blaze like fire.

“First of all, you don’t need to worry about me not having a choice – Kingsley practically told me that as long as you weren’t clearly completely out of control, the reality of the situation means that trying to take possession of you would be more trouble than it was worth. Heck, you wouldn’t even be able to leave the wards without me consenting to your removal. Second…Tom, you’re _always_ worth fighting for.”

At that statement, something which struck like an arrow to the heart of something Tom had always held close to him as a bitter truth, something that had eventually eaten at the core of him and turned it to bitter rottenness, he was left speechless and frozen, like he had been struck by a lightning bolt. Unable to say anything, he just stared at his master, his jaw hanging loose.

“However,” Harry continued, apparently not realising the sheer effect he’d had on Tom with his final statement. Or maybe knowing, and trying to give him a way of moving past it. “You do need to be punished. Not for casting that spell – in fact, I expect you to cast it on me again until I am able to detect and get rid of it. Not even for hurting me – I don’t believe you knew the effect your actions would have.” At that, Tom became able to move, shaking his head almost violently, willing his master to believe that he hadn’t intended on that. “Your punishment is because, instead of finding a way to talk to me about it, to convince me, or in the absence of that, to trust that I knew what I was doing…you decided to be manipulative and try to _force_ me into something against my wishes.” Tom would have looked away if he could, but his master was still holding him by the chin.

With his offence now properly spelled out, much of the confusion and the sensation of being lost that he had been feeling had fallen away. Instead, it was replaced with more nervous anticipation: he knew he was about to be punished, but didn’t know how, yet. Harry let go of Tom’s chin and reached for his wand. Tom looked at it warily, his muscles tense though he had no intention of moving without his master’s instruction: he had seen enough in both his life and Draco’s memories to know exactly how much damage the small stick of wood could cause without ever threatening permanent physical injury. However, instead of casting some sort of spell at him, Harry conjured…a toothbrush?

Tom was pretty sure his expression was saying his question for him, so he just let his eyes go from the toothbrush to his master’s face, and back again without saying a word.

“Your punishment is to spend the rest of the time from now until I take you to the Ministry tomorrow for the inquiry, scrubbing the floors with this toothbrush.” What? Tom couldn’t feel anything but confusion, but fortunately, Harry went on to explain. “And yes, I’m including _all_ the hours between now and around ten fifteen tomorrow morning. My reasoning is this: you wanted to have visible evidence of punishment to show the Ministry tomorrow? You’re going to have it. I can guarantee that after a sleepless night scrubbing floors on your knees with a toothbrush, you’re going to be exhausted and stiff, wincing every time you kneel or stand up. You’re allowed to take a break and go to eat something if you’re hungry, but no more than fifteen minutes break at any time, and no more frequently than every three hours. Do you understand your punishment?”

“Yes, master,” Tom answered, his voice communicating his awe. As a punishment…it was fiendish. It punished him without doing anything that Harry might worry was abusive, but its obvious consequences on his body, plus the bruise on his face, would likely satisfy any but the most hardened sadist in the inquiry the next day. Though, there was a little voice in the back of his head that wondered how Harry knew the consequences of such a punishment so intimately. He pushed that to one side and reached up for the toothbrush. About to get up, Harry gave him a quick shake of the head to indicate that he wasn’t yet done.

“Now, you left something in the duelling room yesterday,” he said, his tone brisk. Harry opened his drawer and pulled out Tom’s wand. With a sudden shock of surprise, Tom realised he hadn’t actually _thought_ about his wand – he was so used to being without it and he’d had his mind on different things, besides. “I’m going to leave this here,” he told Tom, placing the wand on the corner of his desk. “You are allowed to take it whenever – I am not withdrawing your magic privileges from you. You are _not_ allowed to use it in any sort of way to aid you with your punishment. Understand?” He fixed Tom with a hard look.

“I understand, master,” Tom replied quickly, genuinely meaning it. The punishment wouldn’t solve its purpose if he cheated, after all. He couldn’t help feeling like this was a little test for him, though – to see if he was sincerely sorry enough to see his punishment through.

“Good. Go and get a bucket and get started,” Master ordered. Tom immediately stood and walked to the door. Before he passed out of the room, however, he paused, hesitating for a moment.

“Master?” he started.

“Yes?” Harry asked, looking at him. Tom winced at the tiredness he heard in his master’s voice.

“I’m really sorry, you know,” he said, his own tone full of the remorse he truly felt. Harry sighed.

“I know, Tom,” he said finally. “Just do your punishment , and then we’ll be square, OK?”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied, inclining his head and then turning around to find the materials for his punishment.

XXX

Harry excused himself from his Auror training at five past ten on Tuesday morning. He’d explained the situation at the beginning of the lesson, so his instructor just gave him a nod and then went back to lecturing the other students. Harry gained a couple of curious looks from his co-recruits, but they were clearly either not very interested, or willing to wait until later to find out why Harry was leaving unexpectedly.

He walked to the apparition point in the building and got home at about ten past ten. Stopping just inside the house, he called Tom. His slave appeared a few moments later, clearly having expected him. Looking him over, Harry had to admit that he looked _terrible_. Excellent. He was pale with dark circles under his eyes from the sleepless night and his limbs had a slight tremor in them from exhaustion and overwork. The paleness to his skin set off the violently purple bruise on his cheekbone and the red of his scabbed-over lip. As he walked down the stairs, Harry could see him wincing at certain movements, and the stiffness in his limbs. He’d also obviously taken the time to choose the rattiest clothes he had – ones that he’d been using in the garden. They had rips and tears in several places, along with some stains that even cleaning charms couldn’t get out. Harry nodded in satisfaction. No one at the Ministry would doubt that this was a punished slave. No one with eyes, anyway.

Tom knelt at Harry’s feet, his head bowed.

“Master, I did what you ordered me to do. Am I…?” he asked, seemingly unable to finish his thought, though the hesitation mixed with the faintest hints of hope in his voice said it all for him. Harry couldn’t help smiling and leaning down to stroke through his slave’s hair once, twice. The anger and hurt he’d been feeling towards Tom for his actions on Sunday melted away. Tom had recognised his error, had apologised sincerely and had taken his punishment with good grace.

“Yes Tom, you’re forgiven,” he reassured the man. Tom just collapsed against his legs as if the tension that had been holding him upright had released him. Harry allowed it for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of his hair, his body pressed against Harry in a moment of serenity. Unfortunately, they had somewhere they needed to be, and time was ticking away. “Come on, Tom,” he said gently, nudging the man with his leg. His slave sighed, but got to his feet, wincing as he did so. “Sore?” Harry asked, a note of mischief in his voice. Tom clearly heard it as he gave Harry a half-hearted glare.

“As intended,” he replied dryly. Harry just grinned at him, and then wiped it off his face.

“Alright, let’s do this,” he murmured. Tom nodded and then his expression subtly changed. It became blank, with a hint of fear to it. Harry could only admire his acting skills. About to leave the house, a thought suddenly occurred. “Hold on a moment,” he told Tom, darting down the corridor to his desk. Rifling through one of the drawers he found the items he was looking for, items that hadn’t seen the light of day in a _long_ time. Returning to his submissive-looking slave, he held the items out for inspection. “What do you think?” True emotion flashed across Tom’s face: disgust along with resignation.

“I think, as much as I hate the idea…you have a point, master,” he replied, grimacing. “In fact, if I may…?” Harry gestured for him to go on and he wandlessly conjured another item. Harry looked at it with surprise.

“Seriously?” Tom nodded, still grimacing.

“Given what this whole inquiry is about…it would make sense.” Harry had to concede the point.

“But won’t it hurt?” he asked, indicating Tom’s bruise. The man shrugged.

“ _None_ of this is likely to be pleasant. I’ll manage,” he assured his master. Harry looked at him doubtfully for a moment, but then mentally shrugged. His choice. Moving forward, he attached the chain leash that he had been given so long ago along with his slave, to the front D-ring of Tom’s collar. Then, moving behind Tom’s back, he gently fixed his wrists into the restraints. Then, as the pièce de resistance, he moved back around and gently pressed on Tom’s shoulders until he was bending forwards. Then, taking the item Tom had conjured, he fixed it around Tom’s head, tying it at the back and trying to avoid it pressing into the bruise on his cheek. Stepping back, he had a critical look at his slave. Yep. Hands restrained, leash, gag in place…perfect. Casting a quick tempus, he yelped at the time.

“Merlin! We’ve only got five minutes!” Picking up the leash, he hurried towards the door, holding Tom’s upper arm and apparating them as soon as they were past the ward line. Then, hurrying through the Ministry, Tom fortunately keeping pace with his fast steps despite his restraints, they made the fourth floor of the Ministry with a minute to spare. Halting outside the door to the corrections department, he took a few seconds just to catch his breath and dart a look at Tom to make sure he had his game-face on. Nodding in satisfaction, he opened the door and stepped into the department area.

“Oh, Mr Potter,” said the wizard closest to the door, his eyes being inexorably drawn to the slave standing a pace behind Harry’s shoulder. “They’re ready for you in room four. It’s just down the corridor.” Harry thanked the wizard and marched quickly to the correct room. Deciding not to knock, he just opened the door and let himself in.

“Mr Potter,” a displeased voice said. “You are almost late.”

“I apologise,” Harry said levelly – no point getting their backs up so early in the process. “I was in Auror recruitment training this morning.” No reason _not_ to remind them of what he was doing with his time, though.

“Hrmph,” the leading witch grumbled. Harry walked forwards after flicking the door shut and stood in the middle of the room, seeing as there were no chairs apparently to spare. _This looks familiar,_ he observed to himself. There were three people sitting at a semi-circular table, all facing the open, empty space in which he stood and another man standing by the door, dressed in grey robes with red edging. Security, Harry thought. “Mr Potter, of 12 Grimmauld Place?” the same witch questioned.

“Yes,” Harry replied neutrally.

“Owner of the slave once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as the dark lord who so recently terrorised our society.” Harry wasn’t sure whether the last statement was so that she didn’t have to say Lord Voldemort, or whether it was to prejudice the inquiry against them by reminding everyone who Tom used to be.

“Yes,” he acknowledged; the only real option.

“It says here that you have previously had a report brought against your slave’s conduct. Is this true?”

“Yes,” Harry confirmed, “but-“ He was interrupted.

“And that you were investigated over its contents?”

“Yes, but-“ Once more he was interrupted, making the similarities between this situation and his trial in fifth year even more evident.

“And that your slave was at the centre of the incident in Diagon Alley on Saturday the 15th?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, not trying to add anything more. He wasn’t fifteen any longer, and they wouldn’t be able to push him around as Fudge had then. They’d learn that soon enough.

“Is it true that your slave was verbally disrespectful to a – Mr Potter, _what_ are you doing?” Harry looked up from the cushioned desk-chair he’d just conjured, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He heard more than saw Tom kneel down next to him, the clink of the chains and the movement of the leash in his hand the indications of his change of position.

“Excuse me, Miss…”

“That’s Madame Carter, thank you very much!” she snapped.

“Excuse me, Madame Carter,” Harry said politely. “I apologise, however since you did not introduce yourself, or your colleagues, I did not know how to address you.” The woman got two red flags on her cheeks, though Harry wasn’t sure whether they were from anger or embarrassment. Either way, one of her colleagues took over.

“Our apologies, Mr Potter. We are the panel members who decide whether an owner is treating his or her slave appropriately.” Harry noticed his wording: he hadn’t said anything about _punishing_ the slaves… Maybe it was worth dedicating one of their campaign meetings to getting the panel members on side. Or, as he looked at Madame Carter’s angry look being aimed at him, at least the other two members. While he made a mental note, the wizard continued. “You have already been introduced to Madame Carter, the head of the panel. I am Mr Doris, and our other colleague is Miss Gaubert. Madame Carter, would you like to continue?” Seeing the looks exchanged between the three of them, Harry noted that there seemed to be…animosity between at least Madame Carter and Mr Doris.

“ _Thank you,_ Mr Doris,” Madame Carter said, a faint hint of sarcasm in her voice. Clearing her throat, she looked back at Harry. “Now, what do you think you are doing, conjuring a _chair_ in here?” Again raising his eyebrows at her borderline angry tone, Harry kept his cool.

“I was intending on making myself comfortable instead of standing for however long this is intended to take. Since no chair was offered to me, I decided to conjure one.”

“Comfortable?” the woman spluttered. “Whoever heard of a trial being _comfortable_?” Harry’s gaze sharpened.

“Forgive me, Madame Carter, but I was not aware that _anyone_ was on _trial_ in this situation; least of all _me_.” Mr Doris quickly broke in again, sending a look at his colleague who was becoming even redder in the face.

“Of course no one is on _trial_ , Mr Potter,” he hurried to reassure Harry. “This is merely an inquiry.” Casting a glance at the head of the panel, he suggested, “Perhaps we should continue with the _procedure_ , Judith?” Taking in a deep breath, Madame Carter seemed to agree.

“Is it true that your slave was verbally disrespectful to a free person?”

“It is,” Harry agreed easily. The witch seemed to get a triumphant look on her face.

“Then I declare a punishment of fifty lashes to be undertaken immediately. Mr Courtet, take the slave away.” Harry waited, curious to see what they would try to do as the security wizard came up from behind them, holding a device that looked rather like the probe the previous Ministry people had used on Tom’s collar before.

“Get up, slave,” the wizard sneered.

“Tom, stay where you are,” Harry ordered calmly. Tom hadn’t moved a muscle anyway, though Harry could see him trembling. Although he was sure at least part of it was intentional, the faint sound he could hear of Tom’s breaths coming quicker in fear told him that not all of it was. He longed to place a comforting hand in his slave’s hair, on his neck, but knew that would damage the persona he was trying to project. The wizard looked at the panel members a little helplessly.

“This has always worked before – hold the probe, order the slave. They’ve always been forced to obey before,” he told the other wizard and two witches.

“Try again,” Madame Carter told him impatiently.

“Get up!” the wizard ordered again, louder this time, as if he thought that the problem was that Tom hadn’t heard him. Seeing him shifting his weight onto one leg and drawing the other back as if about to kick, Harry cast a wordless barrier, his wand flicking into his hand in an instant. Just in time – the man’s foot impacted his barrier with force and the wizard howled in pain.

“Mr Potter!” cried Madame Carter, but Harry ignored her, standing up and looking the wizard in the eye.

“Don’t touch my stuff without my permission,” he warned the wizard, flicking his wand to dispel the barrier as soon as he saw reluctant acknowledgement in the other man’s gaze.

“Mr Potter!” shouted the head of the panel once more. “What is the meaning of this?”

“More to the point,” interjected the heretofore silent Miss Gaubert, “why exactly is your slave not responding to the collar?”

“Because the collar only responds to me,” Harry explained calmly, sitting back down. The witch frowned.

“ _All_ collars respond to a Ministry worker holding a Punishment Probe,” she told him, sounding disbelieving.

“Not Tom’s,” he informed her frankly. “That was, in fact, the reason why he is in my possession in the first place – his collar reacts to me and me alone.”

“Then order him to follow the security wizard’s instructions, for Merlin’s sake, and let’s get this farce over and done with,” interrupted Madame Carter. Harry’s eyes cooled to icy chips.

“Indeed, let’s get this farce over and done with. I will not be ordering my slave to follow any other witch or wizard’s order unless I feel like it is justice to do so.”

“It _is_ justice,” the obnoxious panel leader told him. “That…that _thing_ thought that it could behave like a regular person in public, being disrespectful and disruptive. If we let this pass by, it wouldn’t be long before _all_ of them thought they could do such things! Especially as this… _slave_ used to be their ringleader!” Ah. Now they got to the core of it, Harry thought.

“My slave has been punished for the incident, both in public and at home.” OK, to say that he had been punished at home was stretching the truth a bit but they were linked, at least… He reached for Tom’s chin to lift it up so they would be able to get a good look at his face, but as soon as his hand got near, the man flinched violently. Harry was momentarily concerned, but when he heard the subsequent whimper, intentionally loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, he felt a wave of warmth rush through him. The ham, he thought affectionately. Tom Riddle was, and always had been, a drama queen.

Continuing on after that almost imperceptible hesitation, he ‘roughly’ grabbed Tom’s chin and ‘forced’ it upwards. Pausing like that for a moment, he allowed the panel members to see Tom in his finest – bruise, trembling, dark circles, drawn look, eyes downcast… Then he let go, and Tom slumped back into his submissive position, trembling worse than ever.

“As I was saying,” Harry continued, slightly quieter. “I have already punished my slave sufficiently, and have no desire to see him punished by something that will either leave him out of action for weeks, or require spending more money on healing than I’ve already had to do.” Looking the panel members in the eye, he was glad to see that neither Mr Doris nor Miss Gaubert seemed to have an expression that indicated they were likely to support further punishment. In fact, Mr Doris was looking very slightly sick. Madame Carter was a lost cause, he decided. “Now, I _do_ in fact have a question. Who was it that brought the report about me?” Miss Gaubert looked at him steadily.

“Mr Potter, we are not in the habit of divulging information such as that. I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh, I do, I do,” he said. “It’s just…Mr Boyle, the person affected, indicated that he was satisfied with the public punishment, so I would be rather surprised if he was the one levelling the report.” She frowned and looked down at her notes.

“Mr _Boyle_ you say? Not Mr Klipspringer?” she clarified. Harry’s attention sharpened.

“Mr Klipspringer, you say,” he mused. “Now if _he_ made the report…that brings interesting questions to mind.”

“How so, Mr Potter?” Mr Doris asked.

“What does it matter who brought the report?” Madame Carter demanded impatiently. “Your slave misbehaved in public, and I for one am not satisfied with whatever paltry punishment you have applied. I want to see _blood_!” Harry didn’t even dignify that with a response; simply raising his eyebrows in a supercilious look which he thought might have made Malfoy the elder proud. Turning to Mr Doris, he answered the man’s question.

“Are you aware of my efforts in campaigning against abuse perpetrated on slaves?” he asked first. Both Mr Doris and Miss Gaubert cast doubtful looks at the – no doubt to their eyes, abused – slave kneeling by his chair, but nodded. “Indeed,” he said grimly, responding to their looks, “everything I have done to Tom would still be possible under the proposed legislation, which should tell you what things are like at the moment.” He paused briefly to allow that to sink in. “Now, the interesting question that is brought to mind is as a result of Mr Klipspringer being one of my principal opponents in the political arena. A slave-owner himself, he is reluctant to let any limits be legislated that might affect what he can do to his slaves. I find it very interesting, suspicious even, that the man who was the victim in this has not submitted a report about the incident, but that one of the principal opponents to my proposed regulation _has_.”

“Indeed,” said Mr Doris slowly. “In fact…Judith, wasn’t that mousey-looking man you were having lunch with yesterday Mr Klipspringer?”

“What of it?” she snapped back at him. Mr Doris and Miss Gaubert exchanged looks, then the witch turned towards Harry.

“Mr Potter, I find your treatment of your slave acceptable, as did the previous investigators who were sent to you near the end of September, another point my colleague _forgot_ to mention.”

“As do I,” added Mr Doris firmly.

“ _Armin_!” Madame Carter hissed. “He’s an _animal_. A feral animal who needs to be put down hard or he’ll _attack_ someone next time!” The wizard had a very unimpressed expression on his face as he crossed his arms.

“I’m sure Mr Potter will ensure that doesn’t happen,” was all he said. “Right, Mr Potter?” he asked, turning to glance at Harry. Inclining his head, Harry agreed with him. Miss Gaubert stamped a sheet of paper, a duplicate folding itself into a paper airplane and zooming out of the door which automatically opened for it and then shut again once it was through.

“Here, Mr Potter. Once again, a certificate that your control of your slave has been deemed acceptable. Since this was a more…rigorous inquiry, this judgement is valid for a year, rather than the previous one of six months.” Harry accepted the certification with a polite smile, internally just wanting all this to be over.

“Is that everything, then?” he asked, doing a fist-pump inside when the two more sympathetic members of the panel nodded. “Have a good day,” he wished them politely, tucking the document into his pocket. Walking over to the chair, he bent over to pick up the end of Tom’s leash.

“Up, Tom,” he instructed, a hard note in his voice. His slave obeyed immediately, struggling slightly and wincing as the movement pulled at no-doubt sore muscles. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry was aware of the other people in the room staring at them. Without another word, though nodding politely at the room in general, Harry marched out.

Not in so much of a hurry, he was more aware of people looking at them as they walked through the halls of the Ministry, heading to the apparition point. Unconsciously, he picked up the pace a bit more, but then slowed down again when he realised Tom was struggling to keep up.

“Sorry,” he muttered low enough that only Tom heard. His slave made a vague noise through the gag which Harry had to guess had been some sort of acceptance of his apology. Then they were at the apparition point, and a moment later they were standing in front of Grimmauld Place. Entering, Harry once more stopped just inside the door. “Come on, let’s get those off you,” he muttered, releasing the end of the leash to drop onto the floor with a clatter.

Undoing Tom’s wrist restraints first, he then got Tom to lean down – the man was just too _tall_ – and took off the gag. His slave worked his jaw for a moment and licked his lips. Harry found himself transfixed by the slick glide of his tongue, a crazy thought going through his head of just pulling that head down towards him and- He cut himself off. _Not now_ , he told his rebellious brain firmly. In an effort to distract himself, he started talking to Tom while he reached for the leash clip.

“I was really impressed by your acting there. The flinch and whimper when I reached for your chin…perfect.” He grinned up at Tom and was pleased to see the slight curl to the man’s lips which was his equivalent of a grin. “It _was_ acting, right,” he quickly checked, feeling a moment of doubt. The man’s eyes were warm as they met his.

“Yes, master,” Tom assured him. “It was acting.” Then he rotated his shoulders and winced. “Most of it, anyway.” Harry felt a twinge of guilt. Now that everything was done…

“You’re allowed to heal your injuries now, you know,” he told Tom quietly, looking away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tom reach towards him, and then hesitate an inch away from his shoulder. Looking back towards him, it seemed like the most natural thing to shift his body slightly sideways so Tom’s out-stretched hand touched his shoulder. Over cloth as it was, Harry couldn’t prevent himself from taking in a shaking breath at the knowledge of the contact.

“I think I’ll keep them, master,” Tom told him, his voice hushed. Harry’s eyes flashed to his face, a small frown creasing the area between his brows as he felt a flash of confusion run through him.

“Why…?” he asked, unable to find the words to finish his question. Tom shrugged elegantly, looking away. Then, sighing, he met Harry’s eyes once more.

“I suppose…I feel like I’ve _earned_ them.” And somehow, Harry understood what he meant; what that soft, relaxed look in his eyes was meant to mean. It was like the feeling Harry sometimes had after duelling until his muscles ached and his head pounded. It was like writing an essay and only realising afterwards how much his hand ached because he had been so caught up in the creation process. It was like learning a new spell, despite how tired it made him. The pains were no longer a badge of shame; they were a badge of achievement, proof that Tom had messed up, but that he had atoned. And Harry wondered if to Tom, they were also badges that he’d earned his master’s forgiveness.

So, in deference to the man’s desire to keep his aches and pains until they healed naturally, he didn’t argue.

“Alright. Now, make sure you eat and then sleep. You’re excused from your chores for today,” he instructed Tom, though he knew that the man’s ‘chores’ were probably not particularly tiresome these days, with his permission to use magic. Having seen his slave’s acquiescent acknowledgement, he then turned back to the door, ready to go back to the Ministry and his training. He knew he’d catch it from Hermione that evening when she saw the bruise adorning Tom’s cheek…but frankly, at this point, if it was a choice between Hermione’s approval and Tom’s smile…he knew which one he’d choose.

Perhaps the most discomforting thing about that thought, he mused, was that it _wasn’t_ discomforting.

XXX

Harry stepped up to the podium, feeling nervous at all the people sitting at chairs, and very conscious of the flying object near his head that was apparently the item from the wireless network which would record his voice and broadcast it to everyone currently tuned into the radio. _You can do it_ , he said to himself, but since _he_ was the one who was doubtful, the attempt at a pep-talk didn’t work very well.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Harry started. _Imagine the audience naked_ , he said to himself, but the thought just made him want to giggle nervously, so he decided that it was less than helpful as a piece of advice. He licked his lips and then decided to just get on with it. How could this be worse than facing _Voldemort_ , for Merlin’s sake?! “I’m sure you have plenty of questions, but I’d first like to introduce you to the regulation we’re putting forward to the Wizengamot tomorrow.” He went on to explain the regulation, using the talk points the campaign group had discussed the evening before.

As predicted, his best female friend had _not_ been pleased to see the ‘visible evidence’ on Tom’s face, but when Tom had defended him – several times – she had eventually backed off. Harry had actually been rather surprised at how protective he had been, and he rather suspected several of the other members had been a bit taken aback as well. Nonetheless, after a brief explanation of the Ministry inquiry – and the fact that their opposition had attempted to meddle in the process – everyone had settled down to business.

As planned, Harry rounded off his explanation on a positive note, explaining how he believed the regulation would positively impact everyone in the Wizarding world; preventing abuse meant increasing the chances that the released slaves would be able to play a beneficial role in society. Now, having run out of prepared presentation, was the hard part – the questions.

The first few questions were easy enough: they just clarified elements of his presentation. Then he got his first, slightly more difficult one.

“Mr Potter, how do you think other slave-owners will take your proposed changes? There has been some opposition to your idea, I believe.” Fortunately, that was something he and the others had discussed.

“First of all, let me just state that I believe this regulation won’t affect most slave-owners. It will only affect those who perpetrate severe chastisement without offering healing afterwards. Secondly, yes we’ve had some opposition, but we believe that this is mainly because they are worried about this being a ‘thin end of the wedge’ situation, rather than them being vehemently opposed to the regulation itself. After all, who could protest the idea of keeping slaves in a decent condition as a general state?” Of course Harry knew, and probably the reporter knew too, that what he was saying was complete bullshit, but it sounded good and was hard to argue with. And unfortunately, the more politically-minded members of their little campaign group had convinced him that what sounded good was often more effective than what _was_ good. “It’s better for everyone: better for the slave, yes, but also better for the master who doesn’t have to be irritated by a slave who is incapable of normal work because of his injuries.”

“You say your opponents are principally concerned with this being a situation where they fear the follow-up legislation more than the initial. Could you expand on that? What are your plans for the future?” Harry had rather been hoping for that as a follow-up question, since he’d prepared it with the others. In fact, he’d dropped that tantalising hint into his previous answer purposefully.

“Honestly? There is very little we are planning to change about the principal reasons for the slavery. As I stated in a previous interview, I truly believe in both of the outcomes – punishment and reformation. So really, all we are planning is to make sure that both of those happen. As I said, I don’t believe that most people engage in abuse, so for the vast majority of slave-owners, it will probably make little real difference to them and how they operate.” Mentally wincing, Harry realised he’d accidentally used ‘them’ and ‘they’. Blaise had warned against using those pronouns, saying they were divisive and could lead to an ‘us’ and ‘them’ situation. Deciding to try to make up for it, he continued. “Those of us who keep ‘reformation’ in our minds as well as ‘punishment’ don’t need to worry.”

There were some more questions, mostly easy enough to answer, before the question he was waiting for came up.

“What would you say, Mr Potter, to the suggestions that the incident on Saturday proves it’s impossible to completely subdue all of the Death Eaters with this regulation in place?”

“I would say that far from disproving my point, in fact it _proves_ it.” There was a murmur of confusion.

“Could you explain that, please?” the same journalist asked.

“Of course. Think about who we’re talking about – the former Lord Voldemort. He lost control in public, yes. First of all, let’s consider _how_ he lost control. He shouted at the man and looked him in the eye. Bad behaviour for a slave, agreed, and he was punished for it, both publically and privately. But he didn’t try to cast any magic; he didn’t try to attack the man. How many of you would have said that _that_ was possible straight after the war?” He looked around and saw thoughtful looks on many faces. “Second of all, let’s think about _why_ he lost control. It wasn’t because of insults to himself; it wasn’t because of a threat to himself. No. He lost control because someone was in front of him, complaining about how badly he had been treated when a slave, when Tom had been spending the last three _months_ helping rehabilitate Draco, a slave who made Mr Boyle’s experiences, no doubt terrible to him, seem petty in comparison. I ask you again, how many of you would have expected the former Lord Voldemort to get angry over something like that?” Once more, there were considering looks and a few slight nods. Good. “So, I would say that, while this was a little blip, it actually _proves_ my point that it’s possible to reform an individual _without_ resorting to abuse.

“I’d like to reiterate,” he said, looking around the room and trying to meet as many eyes as possible, “that our aim with this campaign is not to outlaw all punishment for the slaves. They were sentenced to slavery because of the damage they caused during the war, and their masters no doubt need to use a judicious amount of punishment to control and reform them. I have punished my slave, and will no doubt be required to do so in the future. However, the key word there is _judicious_. One definition of judicious is that of exercising judgement, and I feel that that is what is necessary. Let the punishment fit the crime. For the unreformed Death Eater who defies his or her master and poses a threat to the public, by all means, let the punishment be brutal and uncompromising. However, for the misguided supporter, or brain-washed Hogwarts graduate who reacts out of fear, let the guiding hand be firm, but not sadistic. A master who enjoys punishment for punishment’s sake rather than seeing it as a means to an end, is not a master, but simply a sadistic brute. Let the punishment fit the crime,” he repeated, knowing this, of all the sound-bites he’d been firmly instructed to slip in somewhere, was the most important.

After that, there was only time for a few more questions before the press conference was due to end. Harry made a few more closing statements, and then was able to end. As he walked off the stage his tiredness from being in a state of stress and focused attention adding to his general exhaustion caused the world around him to blur. Figuring that he’d had enough of the day, and there was only an hour left of the morning’s Auror training, he decided to just go straight home and _rest._

As he stepped off the stage, his tired brain picked up that something was wrong. He frowned…there was the sound of people shouting…Why were people shouting? Something crashed into him, and the world exploded into a cacophony of light and sound. Then, like someone had turned off a switch, it all went black and he knew no more.

XXX

There was a knock at the door. Tom frowned, looking up from his book. Harry was at the press conference, and most of the British Wizarding world had to know that, considering it was being broadcast across the country’s wireless network. He wished Harry had a wireless, but the man had apparently decided not to invest in one, preferring the magical gramophone and a variety of LPs – both magical and muggle – for his musical entertainment, on the occasion he wanted it.

Still…he supposed he’d better answer it, if only to tell the person that Harry wasn’t there. Walking down the stairs, he exchanged a look with Draco as he reached the ground floor and the other slave poked his head out of the sitting room.

“Who do you think it is?” the blond asked curiously. Tom shrugged and just headed to the door. Opening it, he tensed as he saw the red robes of an Auror. Behind him, he heard Draco making a choking sound. Looking back at him, he noticed the other slave had gone very pale and was trembling slightly, his eyes fixed on the ground. Not sure why Draco had had such a bad reaction, Tom turned back to deal with the woman on his doorstep.

“How can I help you?” he asked politely, keeping his eyes down. “My master isn’t home.”

“I know,” the Auror said, the grim note in her voice sending a ripple of fear through him. If she knew…why was she here? “I’ve been told to say the following phrase: Kitten, Minister Shacklebolt sent me. You need to come with me.” Tom gripped the doorframe with one hand as the words registered, making his knees weak. He knew that phrase: it was what Harry had told him would be said if something ever happened to him. It gave the person speaking it the powers of a master over his collar. Over him.

But that wasn’t important. Instead, the only thought in Tom’s mind was…what had happened to _Harry_?

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief contemplation of suicide, but no real intention to do so.
> 
> Please note, I am not intending this to be read as a BDSM relationship, and do not intend to tag it as such. While it may have some similarities, a BDSM relationship should be built on mutual informed consent, safe and sane practices (or at least risk aware practices) and, while on the face of it the Dom has the power, in reality, the sub has equal, if not greater power since they can bring a stop to any activity at any moment. I am not practitioner myself, but I have read the works of some who are, as well as doing some independent research. For an extremely well-written BDSM Drarry (Dom Harry, sub Draco), written by a practitioner, I suggest Little Prince, kneel by DragonGirl87 (in my bookmarks). Even if Drarry isn’t your main pairing, if you are interested in how a BDSM relationship could work (starting with one partner who is practised and the other who has never heard of it), which really explores the whole issue of informed consent, I thoroughly recommend it to you.
> 
> Here, the relationship between Harry and Tom is based on unequal footings. Whatever reassurances Harry gives Tom, there is still the underlying issue that he simply cannot be held to them. In a BDSM context, if the Dom goes beyond the sub’s limits intentionally and causes injury, he or she could be held accountable for it in a court of law. If no injury was caused, the sub could choose to leave the relationship. Of course, I’m not trying to minimise the trauma that would probably be caused by such a situation, but the point I’m trying to make is that in a BDSM relationship, the sub has recourse to outside support, should the situation become untenable. With Harry and Tom? Tom has no way out. He is bound as Harry’s slave permanently and with the laws on slavery as they are, Harry could do practically what he liked to Tom without anyone being able to step in. And Tom knows this. Really, his only reassurance isn’t actually what Harry says, but his knowledge of Harry’s character. But, as he says in this chapter, characters can change for a variety of reasons. He’s talking about time, but there are other reasons for a previously good person becoming abusive – brain damage, illness, injury, loss of work, etc. In the magical world, we can imagine that there may also be brain-altering potions, enchantments and curses which could come into play.
> 
> That’s not even touching on issues of consent which must be considered when one participant is constantly exposed to mind-altering pain and pleasure, as well as knowing that he is completely at the mercy of the other. But we’ll be getting to that in later chapters.
> 
> In short, both Harry and Tom are trying to make the best of a situation that neither of them wanted to be in, but the road to a resolution isn’t smooth, and I would be doing them a disservice if I tried to portray it as such. I would be doing them and the BDSM community as a whole an even bigger disservice if I tried to pretend that this could ever truly be considered safe, sane and consensual when neither partner truly has the option of walking away.


	9. Part 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has some interesting, and important, realisations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so, this chapter is a bit...dark. And violent. For those who were concerned about Tom's fate at the end of last chapter...you were right to be :( 
> 
> Disclaimer - I will admit that actually, I don't like this chapter much, so you probably won't either. The events here have been planned since close to the beginning, but actually writing them has been quite difficult. In fact, I was second-guessing myself a few times even while writing it, but eventually decided that it was still important to have because of where I want to take Tom's character. But it's basically 20k words of Tom!whump. So, yeah.
> 
> Also, IMPORTANT - there is a scene containing explicit non-consensual sexual activity. I have tried to mark it clearly with a bold line-break saying 'explicit non-con scene begins' and a similar phrase at the end, so hopefully you can avoid it if you want. As usual, I've written a more explicit warning at the end and a summary of the chapter in general, in case you wish to skip it entirely. I mean, it's important, but it's also not particularly pleasant, so if you choose to do so, I don't blame you! I would read the beginning and the last scene at least though, otherwise you won't have the context for next chapter.
> 
> Speaking of which, I'm going to try and get the next chapter up towards the end of this week, but I am going on holiday from Friday so...my time for writing is going to be completely unpredictable. Not sure when I'll be update, but no fear - I won't abandon this story! Not only two or three chapters from the end!

_“How can I help you?” Tom asked the visitor politely, keeping his eyes down. “My master isn’t home.”_

_“I know,” the Auror said, the grim note in her voice sending a ripple of fear through him. If she knew…why was she here? “I’ve been told to say the following phrase: Kitten, Minister Shacklebolt sent me. You need to come with me.” Tom gripped the doorframe with one hand as the words registered, making his knees weak. He knew that phrase: it was what Harry had told him would be said if something ever happened to him. It gave the person speaking it the powers of a master over his collar. Over him._

_But that wasn’t important. Instead, the only thought in Tom’s mind was…what had happened to Harry?_

“Where is my master?” Tom asked, a note of fear creeping into his voice as his mind conjured up scenarios of what could have happened. Was he injured? Had he disappeared? He couldn’t be _dead_ could he? Surely not – Tom would be dead too if that had happened. Unless his death wasn’t immediate? Maybe if his master died, he would simply waste away, his own death a long, drawn out one. Or maybe-

“I’m not here to answer questions from a _slave_ ,” the Auror told him angrily. “Especially not _you_. Now, come along.” His heart still in his throat, his knees weak, Tom could barely think.

“I-I can’t leave the wards,” he stuttered, it being the only thought in his mind. The Auror sighed impatiently.

“Don’t be ridiculous, and come along.” Reaching out, she grabbed him by the forearm. A moment later, she had slammed him against the wall just inside the door, face first, arm pulled up painfully behind his back. He grunted as the air was driven out of him by the force of the impact, only just managing to turn his head to one side so he didn’t risk breaking his nose. “What is the meaning of this?” the woman demanded, her tone dangerous. Tom didn’t understand the question until he felt his wand being pulled out from the holster he had fashioned for it against his left forearm and saw it dangled in front of his face. “Did you _steal_ this, slave?”

“No,” he gasped out. “Master gave it to me.”

“Why would I believe that, huh?” she hissed at him. “Next you’re going to tell me he allows you to do _magic_!” Tom thought quickly. Clearly, this witch would never believe that he actually had permission to do something he enjoyed... Besides, Harry had warned him about not letting people know about it.

“No,” he said instead. “He gave it to me saying it would be a good reminder of what I had lost.” Tom knew Harry would never be that cruel, but hopefully the Auror would believe he could. Sure enough, the pressure keeping him against the wall lessened and his wrist was released from its position between his shoulder blades.

“Hmm,” she responded, her tone thoughtful. “Perhaps. I’ll be keeping this for now – I’ll see what the Minister thinks of it.” As soon as he could, Tom turned around, not comfortable with this woman at his back. He kept his eyes down, though, pulling as much of a submissive persona over him as he could, now that he knew her position on slavery, or at least, _his_ slavery. “Well come on, then. You’ve wasted enough of my time,” she told him impatiently, grabbing his forearm now.

“What about Draco?” Tom dared to ask as he was pulled towards the front entrance again. The Auror paused.

“I haven’t got any orders about him…but I suppose he’d better come too,” she said thoughtfully. She glanced down at her badge and then murmured, “I suppose this should work…” Then turning back to Draco, her expression regained its irritated appearance. “Come on, you,” she ordered him sharply. Draco obeyed, his head down and posture as submissive as it had been at the start of all of this.

Despite her words, Tom was still surprised when he got through the ward line with no trouble. So did Draco. Given her previous statement, Tom had to wonder whether the badge of an Auror somehow gave them power over the collars, like that device the security wizard had had at the inquiry the day before. He supposed it made sense – they had had to take Draco from his previous master’s wards somehow, after all.

Holding onto both of them, the Auror side-apparated them to the Ministry. Arriving, Tom was slightly surprised to see that they hadn’t gone to the public apparition area – instead it seemed that Aurors were able to apparate directly to the Auror department. The woman summoned two chain leashes from somewhere and attached them to the rings at the front of their collars. Then, taking both into one hand, she strode through the office. Tom and Draco were obliged to follow unless they had a desire to be choked. Not that either of them would have tried anything, frankly. Draco had clearly fallen into his submissive state far too deeply to put up any sort of fight, and Tom was all too keen to get to the Minister and hopefully some answers about Harry.

“What’ve you got there, O’Roarke?” a male voice asked lazily from one desk they passed.

“Potter’s slaves,” the Auror pulling them along answered briefly, not slacking in her pace on iota.

“Oh! I heard about that, poor bugger…” the rest of the man’s reply was lost to distance and it only served to heighten Tom’s anxiety. His worry almost kept him from feeling humiliation as he was pulled through the Ministry like a dog, more reminiscent of the first time it had happened than the most recent time. He thought that perhaps it was because once again, it was an Auror, but perhaps it was just because it wasn’t _Harry_.

It seemed strange that he would feel more humiliated this time with just a leash, than last time with the whole regalia of leash, wrist restraints and gag but…perhaps the difference was that last time he’d _agreed_ to the restraints; had, in fact, offered the gag to his master. Perhaps it was that last time, they had felt almost like props to the performance he was putting on with Harry, rather than as tools to ensure his compliance. Either way, he avoided the eyes of the people around as much so he didn’t see their pity or disgust as in deference to the expected public behaviour of a slave.

Finally, they reached the Minister’s office, and were waved in straight away.

“Auror O’Roarke. Thank you for bringing Tom…and Draco. Good thinking.”

“Thank you, sir,” the Auror said, drawing herself up proudly. “Get in here, you,” she said, her tone completely changed as she spat the words at them in disgust, tugging on their chains so they were forced forwards before they could even process the order. Draco went along with it, almost like a limp doll, collapsing to his knees as soon as the tug stopped. Tom eyed him, but figured he’d probably better follow suit, so sank more slowly to his knees, fixing his eyes on the swirling patterns of the carpet and noting absently that the recent cleaning charms hadn’t been very thorough. “Would you like me to do something else for you, sir?” the witch asked, her tone once more helpful and friendly.

“Yes, but I need to speak to these two first. Perhaps you could wait outside the office for a few minutes?”

“Are you sure, sir?” the woman checked, sounding reluctant. “Considering who _he_ is…?” Tom saw the Minister make some sort of gesture, but from his perspective of staring at the floor, couldn’t work out what.

“I think I can manage a wandless slave whose collar prevents outright attack without aid, thank you,” the man said with a slightly ironic note in his voice.

“Oh!” the Auror suddenly exclaimed. “The slave had _this_ on him.” Darting a glance upwards, Tom saw his wand being handed across.

“I see,” the Minister replied non-committedly, though Tom could hear a dark note in it. “Did he offer any explanation as to _why_ he had it?”

“He said that his master gave it to him as a reminder of everything he’d lost.” Tom could hear the shrug in her voice as well as a note of satisfaction. A quick look up at the Minister’s face, however, showed he wasn’t convinced. Damn.

“Thank you, Auror O’Roarke. I’ll call for you in a few minutes.”

“Yes, Minister Shacklebolt.” So saying, the Auror quickly disappeared out of the office, closing the door behind her. As soon as she left, Tom lifted his head, unable to stand another moment without _knowing_.

“Sir,” he asked, taking pains to keep his voice polite and his eyes lowered, despite his anxiety, “what has happened to my master?” At his words, he heard a slight stirring from Draco beside him and knew that the other slave was just as keen to know the answer even if he would never dare to ask the question.

In response, there was a heavy sigh and the Minister stood up from his desk, coming around to lean on the front of it, a few steps in front of the two kneeling slaves. Tom felt his gaze like a heavy weight on his head, but he couldn’t care less: he was too consumed by the need to know where Harry was and why this was all happening.

“There was an incident at the end of the press conference,” the man said finally, his tone as heavy as his gaze had felt. “Harry was…injured. We don’t know how severely, at this point. He’s in St Mungo’s now and they’re working to heal him.” The bottom dropped out of Tom’s stomach, and he suddenly became glad that he was kneeling: had he been standing, he suspected he would have ended up on the floor regardless from how shaky he suddenly felt. As it was, he had to put out a supporting hand to stop himself from slumping further.

“Is he…will he…be OK?” It was such a pitiful question, Tom realised as it left his lips, but nonetheless, it was out there.

“He will probably survive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the Minister responded, a note of spite in his voice. It wasn’t, actually, Tom realised. He understood what the Minister meant – the man thought he was merely concerned about his own skin, both of them aware of what Harry’s death meant for Tom. But strangely, in the moment, the feeling of relief he had at the Minister’s words had _nothing_ to do with their implications on Tom.

“How long will he be…there?” Tom asked, unable to say the name of the hospital. Saying it made this real, made it too obvious as to what they were talking about. The Minister sighed again.

“That’s the complication,” he admitted. “We don’t know. Harry sustained significant injuries to his head and was knocked unconscious. The healers are…reticent to give an indication at this point, given how tricky head injuries can be. He might wake up in an hour; he might wake up in a month. We have to face the possibility that he will _never_ wake up.”

Each one of the man’s words hit Tom like a bullet, a ripping, burning pain that tore through him. A _month_? _Never_? He heard a low moaning sound and it was only when he ran out of breath that he realised it had been coming from him.

“The concept seems to disturb you. I wonder why.” He heard the Minister’s words as if through water, or perhaps a pane of glass. Muffled. Indistinct. But when the meaning registered, he felt his eyes flash up to the Minister’s, full of the anger he felt at the question, the anger that hid the devastation running through him at the concept of being separated from Harry and never knowing when - or if - he would ever see his master again.

“Of course, it disturbs me!” he snapped angrily, but then tensed in shock as a ripple of pain ran through him. It hadn’t done that when he’d shouted at Boyle. The sudden punishment at his angry words could only mean one thing – Harry’s command to, in the event of his incapacitation, treat Kingsley’s words as if they came from him...meant that his collar recognised the Minister as his master. The man didn’t seem to have noticed.

“You must admit that the concept of Lord Voldemort being concerned over the fate of Harry Potter, except to wish him dead is…curious,” he mused, his eyes sharp. Tom swallowed the angry words which rose in his throat, returning his gaze to the floor.

“I’m not…him any longer,” he muttered to the carpet. There was a long, tense silence.

“So Harry’s been saying for a while,” the Minister finally said, his tone unreadable. “Now,” he continued, his voice gaining a brisk tone. “Harry’s condition presents us with a dilemma. Being who you are, or were, I am reticent to allow you to stay alone in Harry’s home with no supervision.”

“I wouldn’t be alone,” Tom pointed out, keeping his tone as polite as possible, given the circumstances. The Minister made a scoffing noise.

“I don’t consider another slave as supervision. In fact, his presence there only adds to my urgency in making sure you have an eye kept on you.” Tom felt a wave of resentment at the implication that he would terrorise Draco, but he reminded himself that the Minister hadn’t been present for Draco’s recovery; didn’t know how much Tom had done to aid him in it. Harry was the only one who knew and, Tom thought with a feeling of satisfaction, he had shown how pleased he was with it by granting Tom the use of his wand. The wand which was now sitting on the desk in front of him, close in proximity but far in terms of ever being able to use it. “No,” the other wizard continued. “While I sincerely hope that Harry recovers in the shortest time possible, I think we have to treat this situation as if it’s going to endure for days, and possibly, weeks.” Weeks? Tom felt a surge of despair go through him at the idea.

“You’re taking us under your rule,” Tom concluded, gritting his teeth at the thought. Having _Severus_ there all the time… Stuck behaving like a slave and bearing the man’s provoking commentary without reacting… It was going to be torture.

“Not at all,” the Minister replied, an amused tone in his voice. Tom was startled enough to look up. No…? He had to admit that he was relieved at the answer, but if not that, then what? “Between you and Severus, I don’t think I’d have a house _left_ by the time Harry woke up.” Wanting to argue, Tom paused. Recent events had proven that even with the collar, if he lost control of his magic through sufficient emotion, he could still do a lot of damage. So…the man had a point. Aware of the Minister observing him, he made sure to keep a blank mask firmly in place. “So, what I’ve decided is two things. Draco,” he said, turning his head to address the blond.

“Yes, sir?” Draco replied quietly, not lifting his eyes at all, but becoming visibly tense.

“Since you’re so close to your release date, I’m going to ask Auror O’Roarke to take you down to the cells for the next week. I don’t see the point in making any other arrangements for such a short time. That is, of course, if Harry doesn’t wake up in the near future. It’ll be a bit of a boring time for you, but I’m sure you’ll cope.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Draco murmured, a note of relief in his voice. Tom could sympathise – at least the cells were a known quantity. At least he didn’t have to worry about being given to another master…which, as Tom thought about it, was likely to be the Minister’s answer to the problem _Tom_ posed. Sure enough, the next words confirmed his suspicions.

“Tom, I’m assigning an Auror to be your temporary master, for however long it takes for Harry to wake up. You are to obey him as you would Harry. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Tom replied, keeping his voice as neutral as possible, despite the nervousness surging inside him at the prospect. At least the Minister and _Severus_ were known quantities…suddenly he felt like he’d rather be like Draco; stuck in a cell being bored stiff rather than facing some Auror who might be like the one who had brought them here, or maybe worse.

“Good. Auror O’Roarke!” the Minister called loudly. The door opened immediately.

“Minister Shacklebolt?”

“Please take the slave Draco down to the cells. He’ll be our guest until either until his master fetches him, or the 27th – whichever is first.”

“Yes, Minister. And the other one?” she asked, intense dislike entering her voice.

“He’ll be staying here for now. Draco, go with Auror O’Roarke.”

“Yes, sir,” the blond murmured in acknowledgement, rising to his feet and walking towards the woman. As soon as he was close enough, she grabbed his leash and, with a final exchange of words with the Minister, left the room, closing the door behind her. Tom felt suddenly…bereft. It wasn’t that he and Draco had become _friends_ , or anything. In fact, the more the blond had recovered his personality, the more annoying he had become, and Tom had been quite glad to think that he would be going soon. But in the circumstances…he had lost Harry, for Merlin knew how long, and now Draco was gone too…

“Now,” the Minister said again, drawing Tom’s attention back to him. “What is this matter about you having your wand with you?”

“Master allowed me to have the wand as a reminder-“ Tom started, deciding to stick to his story for now, but was interrupted.

“As a reminder of everything you have lost. Yes, I heard it the first time. I also don’t believe it for a moment. I know Harry well enough from two years of fighting beside him to be aware that he would never be so deviously cruel. I’m also aware that if he truly hadn’t wanted you to have it, he would have hidden it in a way that you wouldn’t be able to access, not without magic. So Tom, don’t _lie_ to me. Why do you have your wand?” Tom thought fast. Harry hadn’t wanted him to reveal that he’d been given almost blanket permission to use magic. But he’d been ordered and the collar had seemed to respond to the Minister as it would to Harry…but then Harry had actually given him permission to lie to people other than Harry _even if ordered_. What did he have to lose – the worst thing that could happen was the collar punishing him. Lifting his eyes, he met the Minister’s gaze, figuring that it might show his ‘sincerity’.

“Master gave me permission to use magic for dealing with the garden. After years of neglect, some of the plants have become _very_ wild, and impossible to control without magic,” Tom answered. In the end, he told the complete truth…except for the omission that things had changed since Saturday. “My wand is kept in a warded area that is only open for a small period in the day, and if Master returns and it’s not in the area, he has said he will punish me.” Again, complete truth, except it was out of date. The collar was quiescent, and the look in the man’s dark eyes seemed sufficiently convinced so Tom was satisfied with how he had dealt with situation.

“I see,” the Minister told him neutrally, but Tom noticed the smallest relaxing of tension in his muscles. "Then I am withdrawing that permission. Until and unless Harry countermands my order, you are not allowed to use any magic for any purpose. Test it.” Tom frowned at him in confusion.

“Minister?” The man handed him his wand.

“Test it,” he said again. Moving slowly, a mixture of reluctance and curiosity running through him – because was it true that the Minister had enough power to countermand his master’s order? – Tom flicked his wand to conjure some water. As soon as the intention had coalesced in his mind, the pain hit, a pulse strong enough to make him drop his wand and cry out, though he strangled the sound almost as soon as it had emerged. “Good,” the Minister said, his tone satisfied. “Hand me the wand,” he then instructed. Tom did so hurriedly, gingerly touching his wand in case just holding it was enough to shock him again. “Right. Your temporary master is currently on duty, but will be coming by in a few hours to pick you up. In the meantime, you can sit or kneel in the corner over there. I don’t want to be disturbed, understand me? I’ve already had enough extra work caused by your shenanigans, and don’t want any more.” His firm gaze demanded an answer, so Tom ducked his head.

“I understand,” he muttered and then followed the man’s pointing finger to sit against the wall in the corner. He wondered why he felt so much like a chastised child for a moment, but then the musing thought was washed away once more by worry.

The Minister had said that Harry had been involved in an incident, one that had injured him enough to necessitate going to St Mungo’s; one that had knocked him into an unconsciousness which the healers were unable to predict the end of. Tom bit his lip at the thought of it. Most injuries in the Wizarding world were easily enough dealt with – the repair of his ribs and re-growing of his flesh had proven that. Some however, like injuries to the spine, to the head, to the heart if not caught early enough…even for wizards they could be very difficult to treat…

Scenarios ran through his head, each worse than the last. Harry not waking at all, for months, years…. Harry waking but having sustained brain damage that changed him completely…. Harry becoming completely brain-dead but kept alive by magic…. And on top of it all, the gnawing sense of guilt that said that if it hadn’t been for him losing control in such a public venue at such a bad time, Harry wouldn’t have had to do the press conference at all, meaning that he wouldn’t have been at risk. Or, if the incident had happened anyway, at least Tom would have been there and maybe able to protect him….

“Stop that!” The Minister’s irritated voice broke through his imaginings and Tom realised he’d been drumming his fingers on the wall next to him, making a regular tap-tapping sound. He immediately pulled his hand closer to him so it couldn’t keep making the noise. Not ten minutes later, though, he was once again pulled from his dire thoughts by the man’s annoyed sigh. “What’s wrong with you?” the Minister demanded, sounding irked. Tom realised he’d been fiddling with a piece of paper that had somehow made its way into the area where he was sitting. No doubt the rustling noises had been what had caught the man’s attention.

“I can’t stop thinking about my master,” Tom admitted. “Imagining what might happen to him.” It was more than he really wanted to reveal, but the man _had_ asked, and with his control over the collar, Tom would have probably been forced to answer truthfully, anyway. The Minister sighed again, but it sounded less annoyed this time.

“If I give you something to do, will you stop being so annoying?” he asked, sounding exasperated.

“Probably,” Tom answered truthfully.

“Hah,” the man snorted. “Well, at least you’re being honest. Come here.” Tom pushed himself to his feet and walked over. “Sort through these. I need them organised first according to department, then chronologically, and then if there are multiple reports in the same day, alphabetically by author. OK? Then get to it.” Tom looked at the massive pile of reports which had apparently not been dealt with and mentally sighed. Still, it was better than just sitting in the corner with his thoughts, so, as the Minister had instructed, he got started.

XXX

By four o’clock, Tom was bored, thirsty, and hungry. The only reason he wasn’t desperate for the toilet was because he hadn’t drunk or eaten anything since breakfast that morning. The Minister had had a plate of food delivered to his office at lunchtime, eating while he worked, but he hadn’t offered Tom any and Tom hadn’t asked – his pride rising to choke him whenever he thought about it. The paperwork sorting had been as boring as he had thought it was going to be, but it had worked adequately as a distraction. But even that had come to an end and he’d been kneeling in the corner for the last twenty minutes, long enough that he was beginning to fidget again as worry rose in his mind once more. Harry hadn’t come. And if he hadn’t come by now…did that mean that he wasn’t going to come for a while? 

“Ah, Auror Richards,” the Minister said, a note of relief in his voice as a red-robed man walked into the office after a quick knock at the door.

“Minster, you said to come by and pick up the slave?”

“Yes, yes. Tom, come here,” he ordered. Tom pushed himself to his feet and walked towards the two other men, keeping his head down but surreptitiously observing that man that he figured would be his temporary…supervisor for who knew how long. He was taller than Harry with slightly broader shoulders. His hair was cropped a lot closer too, and he was at least in his forties, if not fifties, if the lines on his face were any judge. As he got closer, he realised that the man was observing him just as intently as he was the Auror.

“This is him? Doesn’t look much for ‘the darkest wizard of our age’,” he quoted mockingly. Tom clenched his jaw shut and didn’t respond to the provocation.

“Perhaps, but don’t forget that Tom _was_ Voldemort once.”

“I won’t,” the man promised, and the dark tone in his voice made Tom shiver involuntarily. “Are you sure the collar will respond to me? I thought Potter was the only one it responded to.” Tom saw the Minister’s shrug.

“Harry made sure to have a failsafe in place. The collar should respond to you in a moment. Tom, this is Auror Richards, your temporary master. In accordance with the order from your master, you are to obey him as you would Harry. Acknowledge.” Tom kept the blank mask in place so he didn’t grimace, but complied before the collar could force it.

“I understand,” he replied shortly.

“There, that should be alright now,” the Minister told the Auror.

“I think I’d rather test it first, if that’s OK? Slave, reach your arms up and touch the ceiling.” Tom flashed a look at the man incredulously. The ceiling was double his height! Still, he obeyed reluctantly, reaching up as high as he could, unsurprised when his fingers came nowhere near touching the ceiling. When the collar reacted by sending a burn of pain through him for disobeying his ‘master’s’ orders, he realised the Auror’s purpose. It was supposed to be impossible, so the man could know if the collar would enforce his commands. Not keen on letting the punishment for disobedience continue pointlessly, he allowed himself to groan in pain and his expression to twist.

He expected the order to be countermanded immediately, so was surprised and rather displeased when the Auror let it continue for a few more seconds before cancelling it. Bastard. He winced as a shiver of pain went through him at his mental disrespect. It was like going back to the beginning again. Grimacing, he reflected that there really were parts of the beginning that he was glad were over. Except, it seemed like he’d returned to them.

“Looks like it’s working,” the Auror observed. He looked back at the Minister. “So, I just take him now, then? Do I have to sign anything to take ownership?” The Minister shook his head.

“It’s not necessary because this is a temporary arrangement. He’s still Harry’s slave, don’t forget, so don’t do anything too drastic, otherwise you’ll probably have Harry on your back when he returns.” The Auror let out a bark of laughter.

“A barely post-pubescent teen? I think I’ll survive, Kingsley,” he replied, amused. The Minister fixed him with a serious look.

“A barely post-pubescent teen who fought toe-to-toe with both Voldemort and some of his best Death Eaters; someone who managed to tame the Dark Lord Voldemort until he is what you see before you now. Honestly, I wouldn’t get on his bad side, Will.”

“Alright, alright. I take your point,” the Auror said, still sounding slightly amused. “I won’t break his toy, I promise.”

“See that you don’t,” the Minister warned him once more. The Auror looked at Tom.

“Hand me your leash, boy,” he ordered. Rankling at being called a ‘boy’ by a man who was almost certainly at least twenty years younger than him, despite his physical appearance, Tom nonetheless complied, though the reluctance running through him made his movements slow. His pride stiffening his neck, he refused to bend down to pick up the end of the chain, instead reaching down its length as far as he was able and drawing it through his hands until he reached the end. Hesitating, he finally handed it to the Auror, hating how it felt like he was giving up, giving in.

But what could he do? Harry was in the hospital, and these two men who had been given authority over him were not going to just leave him alone. Seeing the end of his leash in those hands which were so different from his masters’, Tom felt a heavy lump of apprehension form in his stomach. “Stubborn, are we?” the Auror questioned softly, clearly having noticed his reticence. “We’ll soon fix that, don’t you worry.” With that quietly threatening statement, he turned back to the Minister. “I’d suppose I’d better get him home before he starts misbehaving. Any idea when Potter will be waking up?” The Minister shook his head.

“I’ll tell you when I know,” he promised. The Auror nodded absently.

“Alright then. Have a good evening, Kingsley. Don’t stay too late, now.”

“I’ll try not to,” the man chuckled. Then they were leaving the office and Tom once more felt like something was being taken away from him. He didn’t know Kingsley Shacklebolt at all, but he was a more familiar person than this stranger who was apparently to be his ‘temporary master’ for Merlin knew how long….

They walked through the hallways towards the main area, Tom keeping pace with the Auror to avoid being pulled along by his collar. He tried to ignore the stares they garnered, but didn’t completely succeed, though he did manage to keep the signs of his discomfort down to a subtle clenching of his jaw. Reaching the floo, the Auror dropped a pinch of the available powder into the flames and stepped into them while calling out the name of his house quietly. Tom was pulled in by the leash attached to his collar, but the Auror didn’t take hold of his arm as Harry had always done whenever flooing. As a result, it felt like he was being swung around the floo network by his throat, the strain causing him to feel like either he was about to choke or have his neck wrung.

By the time they came out the other side, Tom stumbled through rather than stepping out as he usually did, one hand waving to grab onto something to steady himself, the other coming up to massage his neck with a wince.

“On your knees, _slave_ ,” the Auror ordered him with a sneer. Tom just looked up at him and glared. He’d just been jerked about on the end of a chain because this blithering idiot couldn’t be bothered to actually make _contact_ with the person he was hauling around like a sack of potatoes. Tom winced as the collar reacted briefly to his disrespect and then felt the pain intensify as he defied the Auror’s command. Apparently the Auror wasn’t as patient as Harry, though, as he just jerked the chain forward and down so that Tom lost his already slightly shaky balance and fell to his knees. “I _said_ , on your _knees_ ,” he hissed, looming over Tom intimidatingly.

It was rather lost on the former dark lord, though – he was _far_ too irritated and out of patience to feel intimidated, so just stared right up into the man’s red face and let his unimpressed look show on his face. The Auror’s expression darkened and he crossed his arms, standing in a power stance Tom recognised as designed to make the subject – him – feel as small and powerless as possible. But what the man seemed to forget was that, for all his seeming youth, Tom was _not_ a young man, and he was a Slytherin graduate, besides. He’d been learning such stances and putting them into practice before this _man_ was even _born_.

“Right, I don’t know what Potter’s been doing with you, and I don’t really care. While you’re under my roof, you follow _my_ rules. First rule, you don’t obey me, you don’t eat. Second of all, no backtalk – I am your master right now, and you will treat me with the respect I deserve. Third, you will be no further than ten paces away from me at any time.”

“You’re planning on accompanying me to the toilet are you, Auror Richards?” Tom sneered at him, the words slipping out before he could hold them back. A moment later, stars exploded and fire erupted on one side of his face. If he hadn’t been kneeling, the force that hit him would have sent him to the floor. As it was, it knocked him sideways to the point that he had to catch himself with one arm. He lifted his free hand to his cheek, feeling its heat and wincing at the sensation of tenderness even to his gentle prodding. To add insult to injury, the bruise on the other side of his face from his duel with his master a few days ago flared up and started aching again. Touching his mouth and drawing his hand away, he noticed a spot of blood. Great.

“Clearly Potter has been too soft with you if after almost a year, you can still be _this_ defiant,” the Auror growled at him. Tom wanted to retort. He wanted to say that his master could bend him to his desires with just a word; that Harry had made him actually _want_ to obey. He wanted to yell at the Auror that being a brute wouldn’t work, but he didn’t. Instead, he just looked up at the man and tried to moderate his reply.

“My master has his methods, Auror Richards. It is not for me to comment on their effectiveness,” he said as levelly as he could, though knowing that notes of contempt were creeping into it.

“Call me _master,_ slave,” the Auror ordered him, his tone little more than a snarl. “While Potter is in the hospital, _I_ am your master.” Tom willed himself to say it, to keep the peace, but found that the word stuck in his throat every time he tried. No matter how he tried to convince himself…it felt like a betrayal of Harry, of what they had together. “Say it!”

“I cannot,” Tom told him finally, staring him in the eyes even while the collar started to send pain through him at his defiance.

“For Merlin’s sake,” the Auror roared. “Why not?”

“My master is in the _hospital_ ,” Tom growled back at him. “You are _not_ my master and _never will be_!” There was a moment of silence as the man eyed him. “I will call you ‘sir’, if you wish,” Tom suggested, the words emerging painfully, but knowing he needed to offer an olive branch, if only to stop this situation from escalating further. “But I will not call you master, no matter what either the collar or you do to me,” he finished quietly, knowing it wasn’t true – ultimately, he would bend to the collar but he was willing to believe that the Auror might believe his bluff. The Auror just continued looking at him and Tom stared back.

“Your loyalty to your master is commendable, I suppose,” he uttered grudgingly. “Fine. You may call me ‘sir’ instead of ‘master’.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Tom said, a wave of relief rolling over him that he wouldn’t have to test how long he could resist the collar over this matter. He decided that he’d try to tone down some of his defiance for at least a little while – honestly, he needed a break after the day he’d had.

“Good,” the man uttered, finally seeming to calm down. “When did you last eat, and don’t lie to me, slave!”

“This morning, sir,” Tom answered, becoming aware of how hungry he was.

“Good,” the man sounded pleased and Tom got a sinking sensation. “That means you won’t have to eat tonight, then. Please me, and I’ll give you something tomorrow evening.” Tomorrow evening? Tom contemplated the thought with despair. Sure, he’d gone without for longer periods than thirty-six hours, but he had had no desire to return to those times. Suddenly, he realised how he’d never really appreciated Harry’s blanket permission to eat whenever he was hungry until he was facing an indeterminate length future with constant worry about whether he would be allowed to eat or not. “Tippy!” What? Tom’s question was answered a moment later when a house elf popped in.

“Yes, master?” a female house-elf’s voice squeaked.

“This is Tom. He’s a slave, so if he gives you any orders, come and check with me first. If you see him doing anything bad, tell me about it.”

“Yes, master,” she chirped, sounding far too happy about it. Then she cocked her head in an expression of curiosity. “What does master consider bad?”

“Eating food without permission, touching anything I haven’t ordered him to touch, using the furniture in the house, sneaking around…that sort of thing.” _Wonderful,_ Tom thought sarcastically to himself. And to think – he’d considered Harry’s rules to be strict to begin with. Boy, he’d been wrong.

“As master wishes,” Tippy squeaked again. “Does master want his food now?”

“Yes. I’ll come through.”

“Does master’s slave require any food from Tippy?”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow. You’ll need to go to the Ministry and buy some rations for him.”

“Yes, master,” she replied, and then popped away.

Richards turned back to Tom and seemed a bit calmer. Tom noted that prompt obedience was apparently something he liked. He didn’t know how well he’d do with that, but he supposed at least he knew about it. If he was going to survive this whole thing with his sanity intact, he’d have to find as many ways around his ‘temporary master’ as possible. Strange how he hadn’t thought that way about Harry in _ages_. In fact, the last time he could remember planning on how to manipulate his master had been…back in October, maybe? Not counting the most recent incident, that was, since it hadn’t actually been intended _against_ his master. Shocked at the realisation, Tom almost missed the signal of the Auror tugging on his leash.

Rising to his feet, Tom followed the man as they entered an eating area. As he was rather expecting at this point, the man ordered him to kneel beside the chair he was obviously going to use. Tom suddenly had a fear that, in the event that he _was_ offered food, the man would expect him to eat from his hand, as Draco’s master had. As Avery’s had. Feeling nauseous and disgusted at the thought, he rather wondered whether he would actually be able to eat. Strange how the image that replaced his imaginings, that of _Harry_ hand-feeding him didn’t evoke the same emotions of revulsion. Sure, he appreciated that Harry had always allowed him to sit at the table and feed himself, but Tom rather thought that if his master ever had to hand-feed him, for appearances in a public place, perhaps…maybe he wouldn’t _hate_ it.

Tippy arrived with the food and put it in front of the elf’s master who eagerly dug in. The delicious aromas from the dish soon drifted down to where Tom was kneeling with his eyes fixed on the floor, though constantly observing what was going on around him. Its tantalising scent tickled at his nose and made his stomach rumble. The Auror chuckled at the sound.

“I knew it,” he said almost triumphantly. “Potter _has_ been soft. He’s been over-feeding you if you’re hungry having already eaten today.” Tom was tired, hungry, thirsty, racked with guilt over his master’s situation, irritated with this brute and frankly, had very, very little patience left. It took every iota of what he had remaining to not snap at the man who had _clearly_ never experienced any sort of period of starvation in his life if he could treat it so cavalierly. Instead, he forcibly diverted his thoughts onto something that wasn’t about the man sitting next to him, enjoying a lovely dinner while Tom went hungry.

Thinking back to his problems with the word ‘master’ earlier, he found himself wondering why he had resisted the idea so much: it was just a word, after all. He had used his trump card all too early – he couldn’t simply refuse orders on a regular basis or the Auror would just ignore him and test his bluff, and he would eventually break, should Harry not wake up within a reasonable period of time. But, as he thought about it, he realised that it wasn’t just a word. Not at all. There was so much more to it.

To begin with, Tom had called Harry ‘master’ because he had been ordered to, and if he resisted, he was punished. It hadn’t been like that in a long time, though. In fact, Tom couldn’t remember the last time the collar had punished him for not saying ‘master’ often enough – it had just become natural. He remembered how he’d broken down in January over being seemingly unable to break the habit of using ‘master’ instead of Harry’s name, even when given permission. Since then, though, he realised he’d barely given it at thought. Remembering lessons with his master, times when he had explicit permission to use his master’s given name instead of his title, Tom realised that he’d actually been using both, and it hadn’t even registered.

There was a reason for that: Harry was master and master was Harry and the two words had at some point in the last few months become one and the same. Struck by an epiphany, Tom realised that now, even if Harry gave him permission to stop using master, it wouldn’t matter. When he said ‘master’ he breathed it out with all the affection he felt for Harry, and when he said Harry, he avowed all the devotion and obedience of master. And to call another, let alone this brute of an Auror, by the name of master, the title of Harry? Never.

XXX

Things didn’t improve after that. After dinner, Richards retreated to a room that was vaguely reminiscent of Grimmauld Place’s sitting room, in that it had armchairs, but there was no fire, no desk, and the colour-scheme was completely different. The Auror sat in an armchair and tugged harshly on the leash until Tom knelt beside him. Tom really, _really_ resented being treated like an animal incapable of understanding orders, almost as much as he resented having to follow this man’s directions in the first place, in fact.

It was boring just kneeling beside the Auror as he grunted and huffed while reading the paper. Normally when he was kneeling beside his master for any length of time, he would have a book with him, or Harry would summon one for him, knowing how over-active his mind could get. Here…there wasn’t even the flickering of a fire to look at. The pale cream of the carpet was just as uninteresting as the sitting room in general. He started fidgeting, sinking into his thoughts of Harry and the overwhelming sense of guilt that accompanied them.

Pain erupted at the back of his head, an explosion that then faded to a dull throb making the headache he’d already had from hunger and thirst worse. Tom looked up in surprise to see Richards staring at him.

“Stop moving,” the man ordered with an irritated tone to his voice. _Easy for him to say_ , Tom thought with a surge of his own irritation. Had he ever tried sitting still for more than a few minutes with no stimulation? Except, he theorised scathingly, perhaps the man would be able to do it since his brain was _clearly_ not particularly active. Expecting to receive a punishment from the collar for his disrespect, Tom was surprised when it didn’t react in the slightest. That was interesting. Was it because the thought was less directed than other times he’d been punished for disrespect? Or was it that because this wasn’t actually his master, there was more tolerance? Hmm.

Unfortunately, even that curiosity didn’t keep him out of his thoughts for long. By this time, he’d started replaying the events of the previous days in his mind. Apart from not having caused the public incident in the first place, had there been anything he could have done? Could he have insisted on being present at the press conference? Would it have made a difference if he had? Those and similar questions kept circling around in his brain and with them, one more: when would Harry wake up…and what would he do if he didn’t?

“Right, I’ve had enough.” Tom was brought out of his thoughts abruptly by the irate tone of the Auror’s voice. “If you won’t stop fidgeting, I’ll give you something to fidget _about._ ” Tom didn’t like the sound of that. “Did you know that as slaves aren’t considered human, aren’t even considered sentient, it’s possible to use _any_ spell on you without punishment?” Tom liked the eager expression on Richard’s face even _less_. “ _Crucio_ ,” the man cast, almost lazily.

Pain hit, white hot knives stabbing, tearing at him. His muscles twisted, tensing and releasing uncontrollably. His back arched without his permission and his mouth opened in a silent scream. Then the pain vanished, leaving him catching his breath and his muscles twitching in protest against the abuse they had sustained. Still, he thought with almost hysterical amusement, this man’s _crucio_ had had a _lot_ less force than Harry’s _punire_. In fact, as a comparison, it was pretty weak. Not pleasant, but…well, apparently the Cruciatus, when cast by a brute like this, was nothing really special.

“Like that?” the man asked mockingly. “No? But I thought it was supposed to be one of your favourite spells – that and the Killing Curse.” He clearly wasn’t looking for an answer, but Tom couldn’t prevent himself from meeting the man’s eyes and letting his contempt show. “Still defiant, are we?” the man asked dangerously. “You won’t be, by the end of all this,” he promised darkly. Cursing himself, Tom looked down – why oh why did he have to always make things _worse_ for himself? Suddenly he missed his master with a deep longing. His fears about giving in to the collar, giving in to _Harry_ seemed laughable in light of what was happening to him now.

He always made bad choices, it seemed. He’d made bad choices throughout his life, each one leading him further and further down the path he’d set for himself, the path that had led to Voldemort and his pointless insanity. Then, even once he’d been faced with the consequences of his choices, he had continued to make bad decisions. Trying to escape his deserved punishment had led him directly to this moment here, where he was facing torture and degradation by a man who wasn’t even his master. The only times he had ever done good was under direction from his master, and Tom suddenly longed to be back with him. But because of his actions…maybe he’d never be able to receive his master’s orders, see his smile, hear his voice again…

His nerves being lit on fire again pulled him out of his desperate thoughts and he almost welcomed the pain that ran through him like fire as his just punishment for what he had caused to happen to his true master.

“If you need a reason for me doing this,” Richards commented casually when he had lifted the spell once more, “then consider it as your just desserts for all the people who were tortured and killed either by your hand or your order.” So saying, he cast the spell once more. And then again. And then again until Tom’s world was nothing but fire, knives and the edge of madness.

XXX

By the time the Auror got tired of torturing Tom, he was a mess. His face was wet with involuntary tears, his muscles felt like they wouldn’t be able to support his weight and he was almost collapsed on the floor, his face pressed into the carpet. He was actually glad he hadn’t eaten anything earlier – it had saved him the indignity of vomiting. He’d almost done so a few times regardless. One _crucio_ was nowhere near the pain of Harry’s fury-filled _punire_ , but several of them, spread out over a period of time…there was little difference in their end results.

He was left alone for a period of time, he couldn’t say how long, and spent most of it twitching and wincing, his thoughts blessedly quiet, though since that was more to do with them being consumed by his physical ills, Tom couldn’t find it in himself to be grateful. When Richards stood, Tom didn’t even register it until the chain at his neck started jerking violently.

“Up, _slave_ ,” the man snarled at him. Tom genuinely tried, but his muscle control was completely shot and he literally _couldn’t_ obey the Auror’s order, even when the collar joined in to send hot sparks of pain running through his already abused nerves. In the end, the man just seemed to lose patience and yanked at the collar forcefully, wrenching Tom’s neck and half-dragging him until he managed to partially gain his feet with the support of the chair and then the wall. Like that, he was forced through a corridor and up a flight of stairs. Fortunately, this house seemed to be smaller than Tom’s master’s, so it didn’t take long to reach the place Richards obviously intended as their destination.

The door opened and Tom felt his heart drop into his stomach. It was a room. A bedroom. A bedroom that was clearly Richards’ if the evidence of the paraphernalia scattered around it was any evidence. There was only one bed. Surely the man didn’t… Tom’s eyes darted to the bed and then back to the back of the man hauling him along. No, if he intended this…Tom wouldn’t submit, he _wouldn’t_. If Master had demanded it, he had recognised his inability to fight…but when Harry had emphasised that he would never touch Tom without his explicit consent, without his eager desire…this man wouldn’t get him. It didn’t matter what he did: Tom would fight.

Fortunately, to Tom’s immense relief, it seemed that…bedroom activities were not Richards’ aim. Instead, he pulled the slave to the side of the room, the only spot with a bare bit of wall, hemmed in by a desk on one side and a cupboard on the other, but with about a metre and a half of space between the two. Kicking at Tom’s knees and pulling at the leash, the man forced Tom down without a word. Then, waving his wand, he summoned two objects from somewhere in the house. Holding them, he crouched down in front of Tom.

“Let’s make sure that you don’t go anywhere, shall we?” he asked with a mixture of dark satisfaction and indifference. Opening his hand, Tom was able to see and identify the items he had summoned. Padlocks. Unclasping the leash from Tom’s collar, Richards tapped the chain with his wand. It doubled in size, and no doubt in weight. The Auror saw Tom looking at it dubiously. “Yeah, you’re right – it’s still too light for you. Too easy on your neck. You need something to keep that stiff neck of yours bowed so you’re not tempted to keep looking in the eyes of your superiors.” So saying, he tapped it once more and it swelled even further in size. Apprehension curdling in his stomach, Tom couldn’t help but imagine what that large chain would feel like when it was attached to his neck as the Auror clearly intended to do. Once with link dimensions of perhaps ten by five millimetres, the links were now perhaps five centimetres long and an inch wide, and the metal had thickened _considerably_.

Seeing a hand reaching towards his neck, Tom briefly panicked, backing away from it. To no avail – the wall was behind him and the pieces of furniture blocked off his escape routes on either side. All his defiance got him was that hand crushing his neck against the wall in a choking grip, and then the other hand punching itself mercilessly into his gut. He jerked against the grasp pinning him, and when it was released, slumped forwards, gasping for breath.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?” Richards said, almost conversationally, his voice inappropriately cheerful. This time, Tom put up no resistance as the man brought the newly-engorged chain to the ring at the front of his collar and fixed it in place with the padlock. As expected, as soon as he released his grip, the weight of the chain pulled Tom’s neck down; to his abused muscles, it was a step too far, and he found himself unable to raise his head very far in his prostrate position. “That’s better. Now, let’s get you fixed for the night.” By dint of using his hands to take some of the weight of the chain, Tom was able to look up and see what the man was doing.

He was fiddling with something on the wall; as he moved away, Tom was able to see what it was – he’d created a ring in the wall, about waist height. Suddenly realising what the man intended, Tom’s eyes widened.

“Sir,” he started as politely as he could, fear giving him more ability to dissemble than he might otherwise have been able to manage.

“What?” the Auror demanded with a frown.

“If you’re planning on chaining me to the wall for the night…can I…can I go to the toilet first,” he asked, his eyes screwing tightly shut at the humiliation of having to _ask_. “Please?” he added, figuring that he’d gone that far, he might as well go one step further. There was a pause and he looked up to see the man had a considering expression. Then, his expression clearing, he waved his wand. Tom flinched slightly, the memory of the seemingly endless _crucio_ s still fresh in his mind, but instead he just felt a disappearance in his bladder and his bowels, giving him immediate relief.

“A specific vanishing charm,” the man explained. “Useful for long stake-outs,” he added. Then, realising he’d been almost pleasant, he regained a dark scowl and turned back to his task of fixing Tom’s chain to the wall. In the end, he made it so that Tom had enough slack to lie down, but if Tom’s head wasn’t close to the wall, it wouldn’t be able to touch the ground. Gauging the length of the chain, Tom thought that he probably also had enough slack to stand up, but not straight – he was too tall for that. As the man turned away, Tom decided that he might as well ask for another pressing need.

“Sir, may I have some water, please,” he asked, once again doing his best to be polite and submissive – he knew the man liked that so…. Once more, Richards turned to him with a considering look on his face, but this one had a hint of amusement to it which Tom _really_ didn’t like.

“Such a needy thing, aren’t you,” he replied in tones more likely to be used when speaking to a pet than a human. “No, I don’t think so. A wizard can last four or five days without water – you’ll be fine for now. Oh, and don’t touch the chain.” With those dismaying statements, he turned around and disappeared into what was obviously a bathroom from the sound of the shower starting a moment later. Tom took advantage of the man’s absence to test exactly how much movement he had in the chain. As expected, not much, and the chain was worrisomely heavy. He guessed that once he’d rested a bit, he would be able to carry the weight of it on his neck, but as it stood, with him as weak as he was from the repeated exposure to _crucio_ , it wasn’t easy at all: without using his hands – since the collar shocked him every time he even _thought_ about touching it – he was unable to lift more than a couple of hand-spans of the chain. He thought about what that night’s sleep – or lack of it, most probably – would be like.

When Richards came out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, Tom kept a wary eye on him. Slipping the towel off, he noticed Tom looking, and obviously mistook his watchfulness for interest. 

“Like what you see?” he asked with a smirk. Tom flicked his eyes away, trying to communicate with his body language exactly how much he _didn’t_ agree with that statement. The man just chuckled though. “Look as much as you want, but you ain’t getting any of this. I don’t like men; not even pretty boys like you,” he said, the words not reassuring Tom half as much as he’d like. He really had enough on his plate without worrying about…that.

A few minutes later, Richards was in bed and turning out the light. Tom shifted around a few times, trying to find a less uncomfortable spot with both the chain impeding his movement and the bare boards with no sort of pillow or blanket.

“Stop moving,” the Auror’s voice growled a few moments later. “If you disrupt my sleep, you won’t like the consequences,” he promised darkly. Tom could believe it and quickly settled down, resigning himself to a restless and uncomfortable sleep.

As he lay on the hard, cold floor, he couldn’t help his mind going back to the first day with his master. Harry had been almost the complete opposite of this man: where Richards had added chains, Harry had taken them away; where Richards had laughed at his hunger and thirst, Harry had given him blanket permission to eat and drink; where Richards had chained him to the wall and left him to curl up like an animal, Harry had given him his own room with a comfortable bed…. At the time, being forced to kneel and call Harry ‘master’ had been the height of indignity, so much so that Tom hadn’t realised how much worse it could have been.

It was on that note that Tom drifted off into a restless doze, memories flashing through his mind both good and bad, but always with the same longing and regret woven through them.

XXX

“Get up,” a harsh voice ordered, his side suddenly erupting in pain from a boot being planted firmly into it. Tom jerked awake with a moan of pain, curling around the new injury. Moving just made everything else flare up – the aches in his muscles from the torture the previous night and then sleeping on a cold, hard floor; the bruises on his cheeks and stomach; the gnawing feeling of hunger and the sandpaper feel of his throat… He sat up groaning, rubbing at his eyes, feeling even more tired than when he’d lain down. The chain was easier to lift that morning, but it was still a constant drag on his neck and would be sure to create further aches if he had to wear it for too long. “Stop moaning, you pansy,” Richards, his temporary ‘master’ ordered impatiently. “Merlin, you would have thought a dark lord wouldn’t be such a wimp – what, you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

Shaking his head, he tapped his wand to the padlock holding Tom’s leash to the wall. Grabbing its end, he tugged impatiently. “Come on, you’re going to make me late!” So saying, he tugged on the chain until Tom scrambled to his feet and then dragged the man out at a fast pace before he’d really caught his balance. Sweeping into the same dining room as before, he used the chain to force Tom to his knees in the same position as he had been the previous night, the weight of its links just making the process easier. And, like last night, Tom didn’t hold out much hope for any succour.

The Auror called for his house elf and Tippy soon appeared bearing a good breakfast. Tom stared longingly at it, his stomach feeling like it wanted to eat _itself_. Sure, he knew that eventually, if he didn’t eat for a while, it would dull down to more of an ache, but he was too used to regular meals now to view the prospect with anything but dismay.

Sure enough, the Auror just ate his breakfast, not a hint of giving Tom anything. At that point, Tom was thinking that even being hand-fed wouldn’t be too bad if it meant he _ate_ something. But more pressing was his thirst, so much so, that he decided to take a chance.

“Sir, please can I have some water,” he asked, his voice hoarse and dry. Richards looked down at him, distaste on his face, but then he obviously decided to concede that point.

“Tippy,” he called.

“Yes, master?”

“Bring a glass of water for the slave,” he ordered. Shortly after, Tom gratefully accepted the glass and lifted it to his mouth. The Auror cleared his throat and Tom looked up. “What do you say?” Oh.

“Thank you, sir,” he intoned, injecting his voice with as much gratefulness as he could falsely produce.

“That’s better,” the Auror replied with a tone of satisfaction. Tom couldn’t help a wave of contempt running through him at his inability to detect Tom’s insincerity. _Harry_ had always been able to tell when he was being genuine or insincere. Tom drank and almost closed his eyes in pleasure as the cool liquid ran down his throat and soothed its dryness. All too soon, the glass was empty and Richards snatched it away as soon as he’d finished. “Come on, then,” he ordered impatiently. “If I’m late, I’ll take it out on your hide,” he threatened as he stood and tugged at the chain. Tom pushed himself to his feet and then followed the man’s leading as they went back to the fireplace in the entrance room.

“Wait,” Tom said, a sudden realisation dawning. The Auror looked back at him and then sneered at his expression of confused understanding.

“What, you didn’t think I’d leave you here _alone_ all day, did you?” he asked, his tone one of amused contempt. “I wouldn’t trust you alone for a _minute_ , let alone a whole _day_ ,” he told Tom. With a great force of will, Tom refrained from pointing out that not only had his master been able to trust him at home from the beginning, but that the Auror had technically left him alone for ten minutes the previous night.

“Then what, exactly, do you plan on doing with me?” he asked, his tone struggling to stay level. Richards shrugged with a nasty grin.

“Take you with me, of course. Let you see the tireless work of the people who put _your kind_ where they belong.”

“You mean in the Auror’s Office?” Tom sniped, his tone maliciously sweet. The Auror’s expression twisted into a snarl and he swung at Tom’s head. More aware – and mobile – this time, Tom stepped backwards and let the fist whistle past his face. Richards didn’t like that; the moment he got his balance again, he jerked the chain forwards and planted his fist into Tom’s already-bruised gut as soon as he stumbled forwards.

“Don’t ever move away from me like that again,” the man snarled into his ear. Tom just set his teeth and bared them at the Auror. With another furious look at Tom, the man jerked him into the fireplace. One more neck-wrenching trip later, they were in the Ministry. The Auror clearly took the time during the walk up to the second floor to calm down as, by the time they reached the entrance, he had regained his nonchalant attitude.

Pausing by the door, he cast a quick _tempus_. “Oh, look at that,” he exclaimed in notes of false surprise. “I’m five minutes late. I guess we’ll have to deal with that later,” he promised with a grin. Tom just glared back at him, feeling horribly helpless. All he could do was retort, but that would probably just lead to _more_ abuse. “Oh, and, I don’t know what Potter did to you for that whole thing in Diagon Alley a few days ago, but no doubt it was as lenient as everything else. Just know that if you embarrass me in public, in any sort of way, _you will wish you hadn’t been born_ ,” he threatened darkly, the grin still on his face taking on a sinister edge. “Capiche?”

“Yes,” muttered Tom resentfully. The man yanked his chain forward painfully.

“Yes, what?” Setting his teeth, Tom glared at the floor.

“Yes, sir,” he replied angrily, deciding that his pride wasn’t worth it. Merlin, his neck _really_ hurt.

“Better, pet,” the man told him. “See, you can learn.” Tom’s fists clenched and he actually had to bring forward his mental shields to cut him off from the emotion so he wouldn’t just attack the man, regardless of the consequences. _Harry_ never treated him like a pet, never denigrated him – he’d always had a healthy appreciation for Tom’s intelligence, even when he chose to kneel at his master’s feet and have his hair stroked like one.

Noting the man had turned and was about to start moving, Tom quickly followed suit, not wanting to put even more strain on the bruises which had no doubt formed beneath the collar. It wasn’t long before people started to notice the scene as they entered the Auror Office. Tom kept his eyes on the floor, knowing that he was being stared at and _hating_ it.

“Hey Will, when did you get a slave?” a man’s voice asked, surprised. “Wait…” Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw a figure come closer. “He looks familiar…isn’t that Potter’s slave?”

“Yep,” Richards replied, a grin clear in his voice.

“Why’ve you got Potter’s slave?”

“The boy was in an accident yesterday – Kingsley decided that I’d be the best person to take care of his property while he’s recovering.” _Best person, my arse_ , Tom thought scathingly. Merlin knew _why_ the Minister had chosen _this_ sadistic brute, but in no way could Richards ever be considered the _best person_.

The two Aurors exchanged some more banal chatter before they were moving again. Heading towards a desk to one side of the room, Richards pulled on the chain once more to force Tom to his knees next to it. Already wise to that particular trick, Tom elected to kneel before his neck could be further abused. The man then transfigured a hook onto the side of his desk and put it through one of the links of Tom’s leash, quite close to his head. On the upside, because the leash was quite taut, the hook was bearing most of the weight of the chain. On the downside, that meant that Tom had to constantly kneel upright or put _more_ pressure on his throat.

Merlin, this was going to be torture, he decided. It was marginally better than the punishment his master had put him through all that time ago, when he had been chained to the wall for hours, because at least here he could sit back on his heels. Unlike then, though, this wasn’t actually supposed to be punishment, and he had no hope of being released from it until the Auror decided to go home. Plus, his muscles were already tired from the abuse they’d undergone in the last few days, starting with his master’s punishment on Monday night, continuing with the Auror’s _crucio_ s and finishing with his night on a hard wooden floor.

Once more, not for the first time, Tom thought longingly of home – of the comfortable bed, the soft rug and his master’s warm company.

XXX

A few hours later, Tom was feeling even worse. His back was hurting from being in the same position for too long, his thighs were numb and his ankles ached from his feet being kept extended for a lengthy period of time. His hunger was like a living thing in his stomach - alternately making him almost bend over in pain and cramps, and the next moment feel like being sick - and his thirst was once more a constant reminder. Worse than that, though, he had another pressing need.

“Sir?” he said, being as polite as he could. Richards grunted without looking at him. “May I go to the toilet? Or can you use that spell again, please?” he asked, humiliation running through him once more. This time, the man did look at him and smirked. Tom’s heart fell.

“Beg me,” he told Tom. Tom frowned in confusion.

“What?” he asked, hoping he’d misheard.

“I _said_ , _beg me_ ,” the man repeated, rolling the words around his mouth as if they tasted good. Tom lowered his eyes to glare at the floor, his teeth clenching in anger. Beg him? Because he needed the toilet?! What, would the man prefer he just _wet_ himself?

He probably didn’t care, Tom realised. He was after Tom’s complete and utter humiliation; he wouldn’t put it past the man to just let him sit in his own mess, so that anyone coming past would know what had happened, and he’d be uncomfortable for the rest of the day. So, once more pulling his mental shields between him and the emotion, he opened his mouth to speak.

“Please,” he said, forcing himself to sound pitiful, to sound desperate. It wasn’t as hard as he would have liked to summon up the necessary feelings to make it believable. “Please let me go, sir, please,” he begged, even his Occlumency unable to completely block out his feelings of complete mortification. Then it got worse. Richards looked around and spotted a couple of his fellows watching. Turning to Tom with a malicious look, he leaned forward.

“Lick my boots,” he ordered. Tom’s eyes flew up to his, questioning his seriousness. To Tom’s dismay, they were deadly serious. This man was honestly ordering him to _lick his boots_ in order to be able to relieve himself! But what could he do? He’d already gone this far…what was one more step? Harry wasn’t here - he couldn’t save Tom from this.

“I can’t reach,” he told the man flatly, indicating the taut leash attaching him to the desk. With a shit-eating grin, the Auror lifted his chain off the hook and then gestured for him to get on with it. With buzzing in his ears, feeling faint and shaky, Tom leaned forwards and licked the end of the man’s boot. He did it again. And again. Then, a sudden wave of relief ran over him – the Auror had performed the spell. Tom quickly sat up and wiped his tongue with the back of his hand, angry to feel tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

“Merlin, you’re a cruel bastard, Richards,” a voice said from somewhere near them. Tom couldn’t tell if the tone was awed or disgusted, and frankly didn’t care: he was too busy trying to hold his tears of humiliation back, as well as prevent his magic from going out of control as it was threatening. That…would probably not end as well as it had with his master.

Fortunately, Richards seemed to decide that the show was over as he soon slipped Tom’s chain back on the hook – tauter than before – and turned back to his work. Tom just did his best to breathe through his emotions, grateful for the respite. Lowering his Occlumency barrier, he allowed himself to fall into his mind.

Overuse of Occlumency was dangerous for one specific reason – it was very tempting to use the mental shields to hold off unpleasant emotions, thereby preventing the memories from joining the mental ‘sea’; but if too many memories were held beyond the barrier, what happened to Draco would occur. Essentially, the memories held outside the mind – in the same way as Legilimency invaders – would develop a critical mass, and the true self would be unable to break through the barriers he himself had created, unless he had outside aid, as he had given to Draco. Since that wasn’t an option for Tom, he had to make sure that he didn’t risk the same situation occurring.

In order to do that, he would have to be disciplined with himself – he could only use his barriers on a very temporary basis, to stop himself from reacting in a way that would make the situation far worse, as he had already done too many times. But that meant that he had to actually _experience_ the situation again, in memory form. Within his mind, he allowed the memory to hit him, the mortification blasting through him and making him feel sick and shaky, despite being detached from his body. Letting it play through to the end, he took a moment to catch his ‘breath’ and then sent the newly formed piece of parchment into a spiral in one of the furthest reaches of his ‘library’. There were already a few documents there, but he suspected grimly that by the end of this whole ordeal – _please, Merlin, say that there would be an end!_ – there would be many, _many_ more.

In the end, he decided to stay in his mind, allowing himself to go through memories of better times. It was a much more pleasant way to pass the time than being solidly anchored in his body and experiencing all of its aches and pains. Like this, he could still feel the sensations, but they were muted. The downside was that he was more vulnerable to attack and much less aware of his surroundings. But frankly, given the situation, he suspected that he wouldn’t be able to avoid any of the pain no doubt coming his way in the near future even if he _was_ aware.

So instead, he allowed himself to luxuriate in memories of books he had read; in the crackle of the fire at home; in the softness of his bed. And if he also pulled forward the memory of half-sitting at his master’s side, reading a book, and with Master running his hand through Tom’s hair…well, no one else needed to know, did they?

XXX

Tom was pulled out of his mind abruptly by a boot planting itself painfully in his side in an unwelcome repeat of that morning. Groaning in pain, he looked up at Richards, his anger, frustration and helplessness once again running through him. Still, he’d had a bit of a break from the negative emotions, at least. Perhaps being forced to accompany the man to work wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, if he was able to meditate through most of it.

“Get up,” the man ordered impatiently, tugging at the chain. Tom pushed himself to his feet, almost falling as his legs decided to wake up. Pins and needles tingling painfully, he hobbled after the man who was certainly not going to wait for the slave to recover from the position he’d been forced into for Merlin knew how long. When the Auror headed towards the floos again, he realised that it must be the end of the day. He’d spent a _long_ time meditating, he realised. _Thank Merlin the collar didn’t count that as magic_ , he thought. Small mercies, and all that.

One more neck-breaking journey later, they were back at the man’s unwelcoming house. Richards pulled him through to the sitting room and forced him to his knees once more. Tom winced as he hit the floor rather harder than he would have liked, especially considering the abuse his knees had already gone through the rest of that day.

“Take your shirt off,” the Auror ordered. Tom just stared at him in confusion and disbelief. What the…? “Take it off, or I’ll rip it off,” the man warned impatiently. “And I assure you, I won’t be wasting money on clothes for you if it’s damaged.” The thought of having to go shirtless with the man to work sending a chill of horror through him, Tom slowly complied, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it shrug off his shoulders. He shuddered as he saw Richards’ eyes tracing the line of his collarbone, of his ribs.

“Skinny thing, aren’t you?” the man commented and Tom desperately wanted to hug his arms around himself, but refused to show that much weakness. “Maybe Potter hasn’t been over-feeding you as much as I had thought. Turn around.” Tom eyed him – there was _no way_ he wanted to reveal his back to this…this _brute._ Who knew what he’d do? “Now,” the man snapped and Tom’s collar started sending flickers of pain through his nerves. Gritting his teeth, more fearful than he’d like to admit, unsure what Richards was intending, but with little choice but to obey.

“I said that if you made me late, I’d take it out on your hide, didn’t I?” Richards asked, his tone almost pleasant. It seemed like the more sadism he was feeling, the sweeter his tone became. Tom stored the thought away for later: right then his thoughts were rather too full of apprehension. “You made me five minutes late, so I think five lashes is an appropriate consequence.” Tom almost collapsed with relief. He could deal with five lashes. They’d be horrible, but he’d manage: he’d had worse before. “Aren’t I a kind master to give you such an easy way of making up for what you did?”

The man couldn’t be serious, Tom thought incredulously. ‘Make up for what he did’? Like being late by five minutes for a desk job was anything to worry about. It was strange how this situation was reminiscent of and completely different from how he had _asked_ for a punishment from his master not so long ago, because he’d felt so guilty at what he’d done, and he’d known the only way to remove that guilt was to be first punished and then forgiven. It had been so difficult at the time, but in a way, Tom was now thankful for it: it meant that he knew how truly perverted this situation was. Richards was a tyrant, a sadistic bully. Harry was a master. Tom knew which one he respected, and which one he felt only the deepest contempt for.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a boot jabbing into his kidney. Hissing with pain, he arched backwards. “I _said_ , aren’t I a kind master,” the man repeated threateningly. Tom felt an inappropriate bubble of laughter well up in his throat at his over-the-top efforts to cow him. Still, he swallowed down the emotion along with his anger – in the end, the only one who would suffer from his retorts would be himself.

“Yes, sir,” he intoned as neutrally as possible, but unable to prevent some hints of mocking from making their way into his voice. There was a pause for a moment as if the man was trying to work out whether he was being disrespectful or not, and then the pain hit. In the cutting, burning, stinging impact, Tom recognised a _flagello_ instead of a physical implement, simply because there was no warning whistle before the hit landed. As the strikes continued, he clenched his teeth to avoid crying out and his fists formed into white-knuckled balls. Fortunately, the man held to his decision of five strikes, so it was quickly over. The initial pain, at least. From experience, Tom knew that the consequences of being whipped didn’t end with just the punishment, unlike with spells such as the Cruciatus, or even _punire_.

Non-physical pain could be dangerous if used for too long – the body simply didn’t know how to deal with it and was unable to minimise it, as it could with physical pains to a certain degree. The advantage of them, however, was that as long as they _weren’t_ held for too long, there were very few consequences afterwards of the spell itself – for both of them, the main consequence was of the reactions the body went through of tensing muscles; stretching and straining tendons. A whipping however…he knew the man hadn’t actually broken his skin, thank Merlin, by the lack of blood trickling down his back; there were no doubt raised welts which would be irritated for the rest of that evening, at least, and then would probably turn into bruises. Lying down to sleep, sitting upright when kneeling…they would be even more difficult with these marks present.

Tom started to shrug his shirt back on after a period of silence.

“Stop that,” the man instructed him. “I want to see my handiwork while I eat.” Gritting his teeth once more, Tom just balled his shirt in his lap, following the tug of the leash when it moved once more. They went through to the eating area where Tom knelt beside Richards’ chair without prompting this time. When the collar gave him an unexpected lick of pleasure, his jaw clenched even further, to the point that he was worried his molars would crack. It was the first time he’d felt pleasure from the collar since he’d been with his master, he realised. He wondered why that was - perhaps it was because Richards wasn’t his true master; perhaps it was because the collar was interpreting his sadistic actions as cues for how it should react and was therefore using more pain than pleasure. Either way, Tom had been rather grateful for it – pain made it easier for him to continue hating the man. So, there wouldn’t be any more obeying orders without being prompted, he decided, even if it meant more pain for him.

Fortunately, this time the sadistic Auror decided to feed him, although when Tippy brought the plate, Tom was less than enthused at the offering. It was some kind of grey slop, accompanied by a bowl of water; more like something he would expect to find being fed to animals than a human. Merlin, he’d seen _dog food_ that was more appealing than this! Not to mention, of course, that he hadn’t been provided any cutlery…

“Sir, may I have a spoon or a fork,” he asked politely, hoping the house elf had just forgotten to bring it. He realised how baseless that hope had been when the man just snorted in amusement.

“You’ve got fingers, haven’t you? I’m not letting you touch more of my stuff than absolutely necessary. Merlin knows what kind of dark magic you’d infect it with.” _It doesn’t work like that, you idiot_ , Tom seethed, almost welcoming the sting of the collar for his mental disrespect. Still, like most of his comments, he kept his scorn inside. Looking at his fingers dubiously, though, the thought of eating with them made his stomach curl.

He hadn’t been able to wash his hands since he’d been at home, and he’d been kneeling and lying on the floor for almost thirty-six hours. He didn’t want to think what kind of germs were on his fingers, and they certainly _felt_ horribly grubby. Casting a glance up at the Auror, wondering whether he could ask for a cleaning charm, he decided against it in the end: the man would probably just laugh at him again.

Instead, he sacrificed a very small amount of the precious water in the bowl to wet the corner of his shirt and use it as a washcloth for the fingers on his right hand, the one he planned to use to eat. But first, _water_. He lifted the bowl and was about to drink from it, not caring about what he’d look like, when Richards clearing his throat interrupted him. Pausing and looking upwards, he saw the man casting a pointed look at him. Tom just raised a questioning eyebrow. What did he want _now_?

“What do you say?” the Auror prompted impatiently. Tom really couldn’t think of anything, until it hit him as the man’s expression darkened.

“Thank you, sir,” he intoned, his voice as grateful as he could make it, once more feeling a flicker of disdain at the man as his expression cleared and looked pleased. One would have thought that an _Auror_ would be able to detect false emotion. Still, Tom couldn’t help but be glad of his obliviousness – if he’d had to put on more of an act, it would have taken more energy, and he really couldn’t be bothered with everything else he had to put up with at the moment.

Drinking half the water straight away, Tom almost moaned at the delicious taste and coolness. He truly hadn’t appreciated how much just not having water freely available could be a torture in and of itself: as a child, the orphans had regularly gone without much, if any, food; water had always been available, though. As for his time spent enslaved, the Ministry had given them sufficient water to hydrate them, and Harry had of course never limited him.

Next, he dug into the slop with much less enthusiasm. Sucking on his fingers, he realised that it was as tasteless and disgusting as he had feared. The consistency was some kind of mix between glutinous, lumpy and slimy, and it tasted vaguely of starch. It was hard to swallow, and once he did, it sat heavily in his stomach. Still, he forced himself to eat it – there wouldn’t be anything else, and he was _famished_.

Once he was finished, fortunately allowed to eat in peace, he carefully sucked his fingers as clean as possible and then sacrificed a little more water to repeat his finger cleaning process of earlier. Finishing off the water, he realised that Richards was only halfway through his own meal, the portion size of Tom’s pitiful dinner so small in comparison that even cleaning his fingers hadn’t made much of an impact on how long it had taken.

With little other option, he just waited, slipping into his mind as the thoughts of Harry and the worries about when Harry would wake up started overwhelming him again. In his mind, he was able to keep those worries to one side, focusing on better or more productive thoughts. It was the only way he could see himself getting through this time until Harry was better. Because he would get better. He _had_ to.

XXX **Begin explicit non-con scene** XXX

It was Saturday night, around 9pm. Richards had been drinking steadily since dinner and had been getting more and more inebriated as time wore on. If the pattern of last weekend and this weekend were anything to judge by, it was a regular habit for the Auror to get stinking drunk on Saturday nights. Last time he had turned violent, physically striking Tom with hands and feet until he was curled in a ball, unable to think through the pain. In the end, he’d only given up when the drink had put him to sleep, and Tom had spent the night awake, listening to his snores and doing his best not to move to aggravate his new bruises.

Fortunately, in his drunken state, he hadn’t been either accurate or particularly forceful, so Tom had escaped without any injuries which were too serious. He thought that one of his ribs might have cracked, but it clearly hadn’t fully fractured as breathing hadn’t suddenly become painful. The next few days had been particularly tortuous, though, with no position being even vaguely comfortable, especially not the positions Richards had forced him to take.

Tom seriously hoped that there wouldn’t be a repetition of that this weekend – pain was exhausting and he was already feeling almost at his limit from everything else. He was kneeling next to the table he was attached to, a few feet away from where Richards was sitting. He was glad of it: glad he didn’t have to be close to the man, breathing in his alcoholic stench, and hoping that his half-hidden position might help stave off any inclinations towards violence.

The Auror had started off with reading a newspaper while listening to the wireless, but had given that up in favour of just staring into space, drinking and listening to the presenters speak. Then, as if the alcohol had made him forget that there was another person in the room with him, Richards started fumbling with his belt, opening his trousers and fishing his cock out.

Tom made sure to stay as still as possible – he didn’t want to be noticed. Richards stroked his dick absently, and Tom couldn’t help but notice how it was going from half-hard to fully hard, curving over the man’s stomach. Then, with a chill of horror, Tom realised Richards was staring at him.

“For an evil git, you sure are pretty,” the man said, a slight slur to his words. “C’mere,” he ordered, waving a drunk hand at Tom.

“I can’t,” he said simply, happy to have the excuse and desperately hoping the man wouldn’t push it any further. Merlin, if this…it would be _worse_ than last Saturday. Violence would be better than…than that.

“What?” the man slurred in question.

“My chain. It’s hooked on the table,” Tom explained. It took a while for the drunk Auror to process the words, but when he did, he just waved impatiently.

“Then unhook it, for Merlin’s sake. Get over here,” he ordered again, irately, still comprehensible despite the drink’s effects.

“I’m not allowed to touch the chain,” Tom reminded him, feeling steadily more desperate. The man waved again, jostling his drink in the process and sending a few drops of alcohol spilling over the edge of the glass.

“Touch it. Do whatever with it: I don’t care. Come here!”

Robbed of his excuse, Tom still refused to move, even once the collar started acting up. It was only when the pain got simply too much for him to bear that he slowly, reluctantly lifted his chain off its hook and shifted closer. As soon as he was within grabbing distance, one of those hands, which were still horribly strong, despite the man’s inebriation, took hold of his leash and dragged him closer. Tom fought its pull as much as possible, but in his current position, he simply didn’t have the leverage to truly resist it.

A hand fisted itself in his hair and the combination of the two forces rendered him incapable of resisting. His head was drawn inexorably closer to that hard cock, its strong musty smell clogging his nostrils and making him feel sick.

“Open your mouth,” the man ordered, almost tenderly. Tom just bared his teeth and refused. Richards pulled him forwards abruptly so his face was mashed into the man’s crotch. Bile rising in his throat at being so close to the hated man, Tom kept his mouth closed and desperately tried to breathe with his nose squished in the man’s balls. “Open it!” _No_ , Tom thought, not caring at the pain that was running through him at his continued defiance. No, he would not, and if the man managed in forcing him, he’d _bite_ and damn the consequences.

Richards released his chain, but the hand in his hair just tightened and pulled his head up so he was level with that threatening member. Holding his cock with the hand that had been gripping Tom’s chain, he tried to force Tom’s mouth down on it. Twisting his head so that the man consistently missed his mark, sliding that disgusting hot hardness against his cheek, instead of into the opening he was trying to achieve, he could feel and hear the Auror’s frustration.

In the end, he was clearly too horny to be bothered trying to make the uncooperative slave do what he wanted, so he just stroked himself with one hand, the other holding Tom in place. When he realised what the man’s intentions were, Tom started struggling in earnest again, but Richards’ grip was too strong and all he could do was turn his head slightly so the spurt of semen hit him on the cheek instead of on his mouth, as the man had no doubt intended.

The grip in his hair slackened and Tom got as far away as he could. Unfortunately, that wasn’t very far since the man still had his chain wound around one arm, tightly held enough that Tom didn’t fancy his chances of disentangling it without waking him. Still, he found that he could hide around the other side of the chair, so at least he wasn’t immediately visible. Opening and closing his mouth quickly, the almost-incapacitating pain of the collar faded away now he had ‘obeyed’ the command. Standing up, he peered over the top of the chair and looked at the man warily, relieved when he saw that it looked like the Auror had slipped into sleep, his muscles slack, his dick still hanging out and dripping on the floor. Becoming ultra-aware of the slick slide down his cheek, the cloying substance rapidly cooling and becoming more liquid with every moment that passed, Tom narrowed his eyes.

He refused to wipe it off on his clothes, refused to have the man’s smell in his nose for any longer than absolutely necessarily. Keeping a wary eye on the man, he crept closer and settled once more between the man’s legs. It was a risk being this close…but he’d move away in a moment. Leaning forward, he gently pulled the man’s shirt towards him, watching for any reaction. Seeing none, he felt a grim satisfaction as he wiped the man’s spend off his cheek and onto his shirt. It would probably stain, he thought with pleasure. Then, taking advantage of the untouched bottle of water that Tippy had placed near her master earlier, he drank a bit, and then used some of the rest to clean his face, once more wiping off with Richards’ shirt.

Finishing the bottle of water, he set it back on the side table and then once more scooted around so he was tucked out of sight. He settled into an uneasy rest, unable to truly relax with what had happened. Somehow, he knew that he wasn’t going to be sleeping well that night…

XXX **End explicit non-con scene** XXX

Richards woke up around three am. Tom knew because every time the man had shifted in his drunken stupor, he had jerked awake, only to settle back into his uneasy doze when it appeared that the Auror was still asleep. This time, though, he groaned and there was the sound of flesh wiping across flesh. His senses suddenly kicked into overdrive by a shot of adrenaline, Tom could imagine the man swiping his hand across his face or something. Upon hearing a grunt, Tom felt his chain being moved, and then there was a tug.

Frozen in place – what if Richards wanted to continue what he’d started earlier? – Tom resisted its pull. The yanking got more violent, until the man finally stood up and looked around for the slave. Spotting Tom sitting behind his chair, his legs held tightly to his chest, unable to prevent the wariness from entering his gaze as he looked up at the rumpled man with his dick still hanging out of his trousers.

Seeing his gaze, the man grunted again and tucked himself away, doing up his zip. Tom didn’t feel particularly reassured, though it was enough to unfreeze him when the man jerked at the chain again. Standing up, he followed the still-tipsy Auror as he wove he way through the house, using the walls as guidance and support on the frequent occasion that he swayed a bit too much.

They walked up the steps towards the bedroom and Tom felt his apprehension mount again. What if the man actually wanted to _escalate_ what he had started earlier? What if the alcohol pushed him past any qualms he had about bedding a man? Once more, he found his teeth grinding at the thought, his hands clenching into fists and his muscles tensing. Well, if Richards thought he would just roll over and let the man…do that, he would have a big surprise!

When Richards just shoved him towards his normal sleeping position, a wave of relief rolled through Tom. Maybe…maybe his fears were unfounded. _Please say they were unfounded_ , he thought desperately. The Auror fumbled with the chain and the wall for a moment with a loud noise and then stumbled towards the bed, rolling onto it fully clothed, not even turning off the light which had activated as soon as he had entered the room. A few moments later, chainsaw-level snores were ripping through the room.

Tom leaned back against the wall, his eyes closing in his relief that nothing further had happened. Then, casting a look at the wall he realised something: Richards hadn’t actually managed to chain him up! The noise he’d heard had been the sound of the chain dropping on the floor along with the padlock. Picking up the lock, Tom looked at it thoughtfully, and then cast a glance at the man sound asleep on the bed.

Maybe…maybe this was actually an opportunity? Now, what to do with it… He wouldn’t be able to leave the house – it was warded, he could feel that much. Since he couldn’t leave wards without physical touch from Richards, and he wouldn’t be able to achieve that without waking the man up, escape was out. He suspected that if he left the room, the house elf would report his movements to her master the next day, and he didn’t really want that, unless he could be sure of being out of range of the man’s punishment. Hmm….

He could kill the man, he thought darkly, gazing towards the figure on the bed. It would take some careful thought as the collar would incapacitate him as soon as his intent coalesced, but he supposed that with careful use of Occlumency to separate his intention from his thoughts, and then a careful set-up of the actual action so that even being incapacitated wouldn’t save the Auror….

It was tempting, definitely tempting, but what would happen after that? The death would be discovered quickly, and even if he did his best to hide the evidence, it wouldn’t take long before his guilt was determined. And then what? As a possession, his actions would ultimately be blamed on his master, regardless of him not even being in the world of the conscious.

Harry would wake up to find that his slave had done something worse than his actions in Diagon Alley, would be faced with accusations of having deceived the Wizarding public about how tamed his slave was. The campaign would probably fall apart: people preferring to believe that Tom’s crime was proof that being kind to former-terrorists was at best useless, and at worst dangerous, rather than the idea that Auror Richards’ brutal and sadistic behaviour was instead to blame. And even worse than that…Richards would become a martyr – just another of Lord Voldemort’s victims. The truth that he was a bully would never come out, not after his death in such a way.

But even if Tom had been willing for that to happen… he couldn’t hurt Harry, not again. He couldn’t do that to his master who had only ever done his best for Tom and the other slaves, no matter how little they deserved his efforts. He sighed. So, he couldn’t kill the man. And if he couldn’t kill Richards, he couldn’t do anything which could easily be blamed on him, for fear of the man’s punishment.

Still, he could at least have a drink and clean up a bit, he decided. Carefully standing, he lifted and cushioned the links of his chain so they didn’t rattle and make a racket. He was very glad Richards had forgotten that he’d allowed Tom to touch the leash earlier, otherwise he would have had to drag the chain, risking the noise waking the Auror, or court punishment by carrying it. Walking towards the bathroom carefully, not knowing how reactive the man would be in his drink-induced sleep, he first decided to have a drink.

Water slipped down his throat, liquid and soothing. Since the beginning, Richards had set a pattern of barely giving him enough water to keep him from dehydrating to the point of illness. He’d got used to the constant dryness to his throat, his mouth, his lips. He’d grown accustomed to the pounding headache; to feeling light-headed and dizzy. Now…now he drank his fill, finally. He drank until he felt sick, and it still wasn’t enough.

Next, he decided to actually relieve himself for the first time in almost two weeks. Eyeing the toilet, he decided against it – the sound of a toilet flushing might be enough to wake Richards, and he really didn’t want to get caught. He still had bruises from last week’s beating, not to mention the various other injuries he’d picked up over the week. No, in the end, he peed down the plughole in the shower, grimly noting its dark yellow colour. Not surprising, really. Then, using a handful of water, he washed away all signs of his activities.

After that, the next most urgent wish. Tom looked at the shower longingly, but in the end turned away, shaking his head. He really, _really_ wanted to get clean – Richards had sent the odd cleaning charm at him whenever his smell got too bad, but Tom never felt _clean_ with a cleaning charm. It removed the worst of the mess, but it was nothing in comparison to a good shower. But, like the toilet, the noise of a shower might be enough to disturb the Auror still snoring in the other room. The thought of him waking and storming into the bathroom while Tom was showering, naked and vulnerable…no. Tom shook himself violently at the images playing through his mind. No. Definitely not. Even feeling clean for the first time in two weeks wasn’t worth that.

So, in the end, he just took a cloth and wet it, using it to wipe the areas most in need of a good clean. Then, feeling a bit fresher, unbelievably grateful at his _hands_ feeling clean, finally, he wrung the cloth out and tucked it where hopefully it would be able to dry before being noticed. Leaving the bathroom, he checked on the man – still sound asleep. His eyes narrowing, Tom wondered if there was anything he could do to annoy or injure the man without being immediately blamed for it…

Looking around the room, he first went to the desk. There were various letters on it, some looking quite important. Tom grinned. Perfect. After perusing them, noting with interest that the man was actually deep in debt to what seemed to be a prostitute agency – an illegal brothel, in fact – he hid some of the most important-looking ones. Nowhere that might be linked to him: he hid them at the backs of drawers, slipped between two books on the bookshelf, on the floor under the desk, crunched into a ball in the bin…

Hmm, what else? Spotting a crystal glass half-full of alcohol to one side of the man’s bed, his eyes narrowed in thought and his waning grin widened again. Could he? Yes, yes he could. But first… He quickly nipped into the bathroom to grab a towel and to take the chance to empty his bladder again, some of the water he had drunk recently already working its way through. Exiting the bathroom, he tiptoed over to the bed. He seriously hoped the house elf wouldn’t be able to tell Richards what he was about to do, or he’d be in a _world_ of pain the next day.

Checking Richards, he noted that the man seemed deeply asleep. Even taking a chance and prodding him gently didn’t result in anything: while he’d definitely catch it if the man woke up at his touch, it would probably be significantly better than if Richards woke up during what he was about to do.

Taking the glass, he tipped the alcohol out on the floor, freezing as the sudden smell made the man grunt and shift. His heart racing, Tom waited until he was still again and his snores were once more rhythmical and deep. Then, retreating over to the desk, he wrapped the glass in the towel and hit it with a paperweight. The fabric muffled the sound of it breaking and Tom moved back to the bed. Opening the towel slowly, he carefully set the broken pieces of glass out in a spray pattern that made it look like the man had accidentally knocked the glass off himself, rather than it being intentional.

Shaking the towel out, Tom noticed that there were still tiny shards of glass trapped in the fabric. Hesitating, he eventually shrugged and decided that it wasn’t his problem – if the man ended up rubbing himself with tiny glass shards, all the better in his opinion. Returning the towel to the bathroom, he made sure that there was no evidence of his actions. Now for the final piece of the puzzle.

Moving over to his usual sleeping spot, Tom picked up the padlock and carefully measured his chain so it was about the same length he was usually given. Then, closing the padlock, he lay down with a smile on his face for the first time in almost two weeks. There – how could the man _possibly_ blame him when he was _clearly_ chained to the wall the whole time? His pleasure at getting even the smallest of revenges on the brute who had tormented him for all this time was great and for once, he managed to slip into an almost restful sleep.

When, the next morning, the first thing that happened was Richards swinging his legs over the edge of the bed while rubbing at his eyes, and stepping directly onto the sharp shards of glass, Tom couldn’t keep the smile in. At the man’s suspicious look, which then turned confused as he saw the clearly locked chain, he didn’t even try to prevent his feelings of smugness, though he did take care to not let them show on his face.

XXX

Of course, the small high he got from managing to pull one over on the Auror didn’t last for long. Richards never _did_ realise he was the cause of the painful wake up he’d suffered, nor did he realise that when he couldn’t find some important letters, it was the slave kneeling quietly next to him who was to blame. The curses he mumbled as he searched through his whole desk to find a specific document were like music to Tom’s ears whenever they happened.

Life, however, unfortunately marched on. Despite his victory, Tom was just as much at the Auror’s mercy as ever. His rehydration from managing to actually drink more than a couple of glasses-worth at a time hadn’t lasted long, though the relief from his headache the next morning had definitely improved Sunday’s wake-up for Tom. That Richards had clearly had a terrible hangover at the same time had just improved his mood. But in the days since, the return to the grind after that brief moment of almost freedom had seemed almost too much for Tom to bear.

The worst thing, Tom decided, was that Richards was acting exactly as _Voldemort_ would have, when trying to break someone. In fact, perhaps he was actually more lenient, despite his clear intentions of being as brutal as possible. Tom was utterly dependent on him, and the man made sure he was always aware of that by denying him access to even the most basic of necessities. In the last week he’d eaten three times; always that horrible lumpy gruel which Tom could only choke down because the hunger in his stomach was worse. It wasn’t enough to truly sustain him and certainly not enough to leave him satisfied, not even directly after eating. He hadn’t slept much either, and the world was starting to blur around the edges with his constant tiredness. Being in pain all the time didn’t help either – old injuries were aggravated by new ones and he didn’t sleep enough for his magic to be able to work properly to heal them.

And it was working. To an extent. He could feel the changes within himself – the automatic flinch whenever Richards moved too fast near him; the drop in his stomach every time the man addressed him; the way he struggled to show his defiance any more, his eyes staying mostly fixed on the floor out of self-preservation; the way his humiliation in asking for relief had ebbed away after so many times having to repeat his request.

But in other ways, it really _wasn’t._ Here, Tom had come to appreciate the real difference between Richards and his master. What Richards was doing was only skin-deep. Ultimately, it only affected Tom’s outward reactions. His feelings towards the man were unchanged, except deepening in his disgust, revulsion, contempt and _hate_. He didn’t fear the man, not really. It seemed strange to think that, since the man had clearly shown his enjoyment of grinding Tom’s body and spirit down with his petty, and not so petty, cruelties. The reason? He had learnt from Draco’s recovery that even if he was driven inside himself, even if his outside became nothing more than a servile slave snivelling for mercy…it didn’t change what was inside of him. He was aware enough to know that Draco’s experiences were a _lot_ worse than his own, as bad as this was, and he had still managed to make a recovery, revealing that the core of him had stayed intact. Tom knew that as long as his master came for him soon, he would be OK inside. The core of him would survive: Richards couldn’t touch that. Not until he had completely broken Tom. What made Tom, _Tom_ was still there, as long as Harry was alive. And he knew that if he had the chance, he knew he would hurt the brutal Auror, would _kill_ him if possible. The only thing holding him back was the lack of opportunity.

Even the incident on Saturday, had it truly gone forward, would have been skin-deep. There was no attraction towards Richards, there was no lust, there was no way Tom could have resisted any more than he did, and so he knew he would have borne no blame for it. It would have been horrible, being _used_ like that, or worse, but in the end, it would be no more than just another attempt to degrade and break him down. And it wouldn’t have worked.

Because Voldemort would have done the same thing, Tom knew all the tricks. He knew how the man was trying to destroy his sense of self, trying to make him reform it around himself as a slave. And he knew how to resist it, at least for a while. His times of meditation were a boon, for all that they had been getting harder recently as his exhaustion and weakness mounted. They allowed him to sink into memories of better times, to remind himself of how things were under Master’s hand, to remind himself of who and what he was, although the dive into memories prior to his enslavement were particularly painful.

So, he could resist. For now. If Harry didn’t come for him soon, though…. It had been almost two weeks. Merlin knew how long it could last for. He knew he could hold out for perhaps a few months, allowing his outside reactions to submit to the Auror, while guarding his inner self carefully – what he had tried to do with Harry would work a lot better here, he was sure.

With Harry, he realised it hadn’t worked because his master had always been able to get under his skin, starting at age 11 and becoming ever more of an irritation from then on. But it was since his taking possession of Tom that he had truly started reaching through to Tom’s core. The same techniques he had tried hadn’t worked because instead of pushing him to the point where he had to continually pull a persona over himself, just to avoid constant punishment, he had been given the space to relax, to be himself. To find himself again, in fact.

Harry had…he hadn’t just been a master, he had become a friend…maybe something more. Tom didn’t miss him just because of his kindness, because of the way he had made what could have been an extremely humiliating denial of everything that made him human, into something easy. He had made _slavery_ almost easy. Almost desirable. He had wound himself so tightly around Tom’s heart that the man knew there was no way of separating them without ripping the organ out of Tom’s chest. If Harry died… But he wouldn’t – he would survive, Tom was sure of that. He had survived Lord Voldemort’s fury – he would survive a mere head injury.

It was only now with the contrast, that Tom realised how far he had fallen. And how much he didn’t care. With Harry, he would bow, he would kneel, he would crawl if the man asked it of him, because his master deserved it. He would follow the man’s orders willingly, almost happily, and would welcome the feeling of satisfaction and pleasure when he knew he had pleased Master, because the man had _earned_ it.

What had this Auror done to earn his loyalty? His trust? What had he suffered, that he should deserve Tom’s submission? Voldemort had killed Harry’s parents, had condemned him to growing up with abusive muggles through that action. He had hounded Harry throughout his Hogwarts’ years, had attacked, tortured and tried to kill Harry multiple times. His godfather, his father’s friends, many, many other people close to Harry had died at Voldemort’s hands or his orders. He _owed_ Harry a debt he could never repay.

This Auror? He owed the man nothing. What did he have against Tom, against Voldemort? Events which had happened to other people, as he had said when he had tortured Tom that first night? No. He owed the man nothing. Not loyalty. Not trust. Not submission. Nothing.

But the question he had to keep coming back to was this: how long? How long could he endure? He refused to become a broken pet, _he refused_. And ultimately, with an indeterminate sentence, if he was left with this man for too long, he knew that he would eventually break, no matter that he knew the tricks, that he knew how to resist it. When his sentence stretched on forever, there was no hope of escape. Except by one means.

He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that. For his sake; for Harry’s…he couldn’t stand the idea of Harry waking up, expecting to reclaim his slave only to find that Tom was…gone. Though, maybe the man would be glad to be well-rid of him – without him to take care of, a burden would be lifted off Harry’s shoulders.

No, he mustn’t think like that. He knew the man enjoyed his company, enjoyed his submission – he had said so himself. Tom clung to the conversation they had had such a short time ago, castigating himself for how he had been so stubborn, so blind to what he had had until it was too late. No, he must hold on for as long as he could. And then…and then if it seemed like he wouldn’t be able to keep hold of himself for much longer…well, it wouldn’t be very hard to enrage the Auror to the point where he went a little too far, would it?

XXX

Once more kneeling by Richard’s desk in the Auror Office, Tom was half-aware of what was going on. His exhaustion and hunger had finally reached the point that he couldn’t concentrate sufficiently to enter his mind. Instead, he just knelt in place, swaying every so often as his slipped into a light doze, his mind quiet and empty. In that semi-unconscious state, Tom didn’t register the change in the constant office-chatter volume level at first. A moment later, however, a very familiar voice snapped him out of his daze immediately.

“I’m looking for Auror Richards,” the voice said with a very welcome – note of steel. In an instant, he was on his feet, almost accidentally choking himself before he lifted the end of the leash from its usual hook on Richards’ desk. He ignored the call of outrage, and the man’s orders for him to get back to his place – there was something far more important he had to do, and no punishment would stop him.

Almost running towards where he’d heard that voice, his eyes were searching for that beloved face, blind to all else. When he saw Master’s messy shock of hair, his heart leapt into his mouth and he increased his speed, almost skidding to a halt just in front of Master, before dropping to his knees. He longed to bury his face in the man’s trousers, but dared not touch him without permission.

“Master,” he gasped, almost sobbing. In fact, he felt the prickle of tears at his eyes, though he fought them back. He would not disgrace his master in public; not again. “Master,” he murmured once again, his tone expressing all the hope, the fear, the longing he had felt for the last three weeks.

“Tom, hey,” Master said gently, his tone surprised. At the tacit approval of his presence by his _true_ master, the collar stopped punishing Tom for moving. “I’m here.” Tom saw his hand move towards him and couldn’t help himself – he flinched. Violently. Master froze and Tom felt horror run through him. It had been less than thirty seconds and he’d _already_ upset Master.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he choked, hearing his voice filled with desperation. Moving closer to his master’s hand, he nudged it with his head. “Please touch me, I’m sorry!” When that hand started stroking through his hair a few moments later, he sighed with relief, his sudden tension relaxing.

“Don’t worry, Tom. It’s OK,” Master reassured him. “I’m not angry at _you_.” Then, in a tone that would have frozen Tom’s blood had it been directed at him, he spoke at a louder volume and clearly directed at the people in front of them. “Auror Richards, I presume.” Tom was barely aware of anything by this point except for the fact that he was with his master again, finally. Still, Master continued speaking, a demanding and angry note in his voice. “What the _hell_ have you done to my slave?”

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A character tries to force another character to give him oral sex. He doesn't succeed, but the material is explicit. There is also a fair amount of explicit violence/abuse and some outright torture. Some mention of suicidal thoughts but with no intention of immediate action.
> 
> General chapter summary: Tom is assigned a 'temporary master' who treats him completely like a slave, and who takes his anger about Tom's actions during the war out on him. He is humiliated and degraded with his most basic needs either ignored or used to leverage his obedience. However, as a result of this treatment, something which was what his slavery would have been like if he had been sold at the auction with the other slaves, he realises how much he appreciates Harry and what Harry does for him. He also realises the difference between submitting to Auror Richards because if he doesn't, he will be hurt, and submitting to Harry because he wants to please his master.


	10. Part 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tom's realisations crystallise as he feels better and Harry just feels confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you lucky lot, here's another chapter only two days after the last one. Yes - this is probably the fastest I've written a chapter before, but I was being told that it was illegal for me to go on holiday if it meant I wouldn't update ;) You know who you are :D After this, I can't predict when the next chapter will be up - it might be in five or so days as normal, or it might be in two or three weeks. Don't worry - I'm not abandoning this story!
> 
> Hopefully I haven't missed too many typos since I skimped a bit on the editing process... 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter - unadulterated fluff. Mostly. Also, there's a bit of an explicit fantasy scene which I've marked with bold text (it's not a scene break this time, but should be obvious) in case you'd like to avoid that. 
> 
> On the upside, we're finally starting to get into the territory that so many of you Tomarry fans have been asking me about in reviews :D I've also updated my chapter number prediction because there's no way I'm going to finish in one chapter - heck, I don't even know if 14 chapters will be enough... We'll see. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments - I've read and enjoyed all of them, I promise, but I figured you'd prefer a chapter instead of replies so... I'll get onto replying to them later tonight. 
> 
> So, with no further ado, enjoy the chapter :D

**Earlier**

Harry came to consciousness slowly, sounds creeping in first, then sensations, and then when he finally opened his eyes, images. That something had gone terribly wrong was immediately evident: a room in St Mungo’s was identifiable straight away.

“Oh Merlin! He’s awake! Healer Pinflower, he’s awake!” Harry heard the words but couldn’t really take them in. He heard the low-level chatter increase and shapes started moving in his suddenly blurry sight. A moment later, his eyes closed and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

XXX

When he woke up the next time, he was feeling more alert, though still not completely there. A familiar woman was near him.

“Healer Pinflower,” he said, surprised when his voice croaked so badly that his words were almost incomprehensible.

“Here,” she said, giving him a straw to suck on. Blessedly cool water ran down his throat and he drank greedily, sad when the small cup ran dry. “I’ll give you more in a moment, Mr Potter, if you wish it, but limiting the quantity is necessary at first,” she informed him sternly. He knew that, at least if he’d been out for a considerable amount of time. The thought alarming him, his mind flashed to Tom and Draco, to those who were dependent on him. If he had been unconscious for long… “Mr Potter, please stay calm,” Healer Pinflower advised him calmly. “You sustained some serious injuries, including a head injury that has kept you unconscious for some time. Now, I must perform some tests to ensure that everything is as it should be. Please hold still.” Harry obeyed, but couldn’t prevent the question from coming out.

“How long, Healer?” he asked, his tone more desperate than he liked. Seeing her mouth move, he wondered why he couldn’t hear anything, but the blackness that filled his mind once more took his thoughts away.

XXX

Coming back to consciousness again, Harry _finally_ felt like he was actually fully present, not partially in the world of dreaming. He remembered the previous two times he’d woken up as well as a memory of…an explosion? Looking around, he was surprised to see Draco’s blond head bent over a book by his bedside. Even more surprising, the slave was actually sitting on a chair, something the blond had been struggling to do in Harry’s presence.

“Draco,” Harry croaked, his voice dry once more. Looking around, he frowned. “Where’s Tom?” Draco’s head came up abruptly, an initially frightened look melting into an expression of relief and joy. And Harry noticed something else with a shock that ran through him.

“Master! You’re awake!” Draco exclaimed with just as much relief in his voice as he was showing on his face.

“I don’t see any collar around your neck,” Harry said numbly, his shock at the sudden realisation that it must be at least past the 27th April for that to be the case coming through his voice. “You don’t have to call me master.” Draco ducked his head for a moment and then looked back up, determination written on his face.

“You’re right, H-Harry,” he replied with admirable courage. Harry couldn’t help getting a little bit of a proud smile on his face – considering what Draco had been like at the beginning, it was almost a miracle that he had been able to get to this point. But then his smile faded as the urgent question returned to mind.

“How long have I been unconscious? What happened? Where’s Tom?” Perhaps the last was the one Harry felt most concern about: if Draco wasn’t a slave anymore, it didn’t necessary follow that if he was here, Tom would be too, but then Harry had to wonder _where_ he was, if not by his master’s side. Images spiralled through his mind – at Grimmauld Place, with one of his friends, somewhere else in the hospital, _escaped_ … They were interrupted by Draco’s voice.

“You’ve been unconscious for just over two weeks, mas…Harry.” _Two weeks_?! Harry didn’t realise he’d said the words out loud in his shock until Draco responded to them. “Yes…Harry. It’s Thursday the 4th of May. The explosive device that was set off when you went over it threw you off the edge of the stage and you landed…badly. The healers were very concerned – none of them knew when you’d wake up…if you’d wake up.” Still, _two weeks_? That was as long as he’d been unconscious after the Final Battle, for Merlin’s sake. He supposed that that answered the second question too, in as far as his own events happened. But…

“What happened to you? To Tom? Oh, and congratulations, by the way – you’re a freeman, finally.”

“Yes, I am.” He hesitated for a moment and then went for it. “H-Harry? Thank you, _thank you_ ,” he said fervently, leaning forward and taking Harry’s hand, clutching it between his own hands.

“Uh, you’re welcome?” Harry replied, perplexed by the sudden out-pouring of gratitude. Draco shot him a look which was so close to the old Draco Malfoy’s ‘Potter, you’re so _stupid_ ’ look that Harry was briefly taken aback. His tone when he spoke, though, was much more familiar.

“I…I didn’t want to say this while I…while I was still a slave. I suppose…I was worried that you might…hold it against me, or…or expect something in return,” he stumbled through, though the fact that he managed to both not stutter and to actually get it out at all made Harry feel proud. “I really, _really_ appreciate what you did for me. What you both did for me, really,” he continued, more fluidly now that he seemed to have regained his confidence. Though, the fact that he’d still been wondering whether Harry’s good will was real…well, he supposed he understood it. Revealing too much of his gratitude could have definitely been a weakness they could have used against him. Not that they would have, but Harry realised why Draco might not have wanted to take the chance. “You…I was…a _mess_ when I came into your house. Into your…possession. You – and Tom – got me out of that. I…I don’t know how I would have dealt with being free, if I’d stayed with…with _him_ until the end.” He fell silent, unable to meet Harry’s gaze. How to respond to that? Could he?

“You’re welcome,” Harry said in the end, simply. “I hope that you will have a long and fulfilling life, Draco Malfoy.” Draco looked up and smiled at the sound of his surname, something else that he had regained upon being freed. “Though,” Harry continued, his question from earlier coming back. “What happened to you after I was…attacked?”

“Minister Shacklebolt sent someone around to the house the same day as the incident. The Auror took both of us to the Minister’s office.”

“Both of you?” Harry interrupted. Draco nodded.

“Yes, mas-Harry. The Auror said some kind of key phrase to Tom and gained enough control to take him out of the wards. For me, an Auror’s badge, when worn on an official visit, is able to override the master’s control on any collar anyway, so she could take me out through the wards too.” Harry nodded, realising what must have happened. Merlin, he hoped Kingsley had explained what had happened to Tom before calling in one of his friends to be a caretaker of Harry’s slave while he was incapacitated, as they’d discussed. Otherwise, he would have been very worried. Or maybe Kingsley had kept Tom in his own house? Though with Snape there…. His thoughts were interrupted by Draco continuing to speak. “So we were taken to the Minister’s office. He explained that you had been injured, that you were unconscious, and that the healers weren’t sure how long you’d be unresponsive for.” Good that Kingsley had explained…but he could imagine how worried his two slaves had been at the time. “For me, Kingsley decided to send me down to the cells since I only had a few days left of my sentence.” Harry frowned at him in sudden concern.

“Was that OK? I know your experiences with the Ministry weren’t the best.” Draco shrugged.

“It’s true that I was a bit…discomforted to be collected from my master’s house by an Auror.” He gave an uncomfortable smile. “But staying in the cells, while boring, was far more preferable than being sent to another master.”

“I can imagine,” Harry murmured. His mind was suddenly concerned with what might have happened to Tom, guessing that he _hadn’t_ been sent down to the cells. Before he could ask, though, Draco continued.

“When I was…the day the collar came off my neck, the Minister visited. He said that because you’d made arrangements for my apprenticeship with Master Severus, he was happy to take me home with him to start that immediately. He said…” Draco hesitated for a moment, then pushed on, “he said that you’d got permission from the goblins for the loans, so Master Severus was happy to start the apprenticeship on good faith, despite me not being able to pay immediately.” Ah, Harry understood his discomfort.

“Don’t worry, Draco,” he reassured the blond. “As soon as I can, I’ll set up an appointment with the goblins to arrange the loan through the charity that, well, if it’s been two weeks, technically should be in existence. Just make sure you know how much you’ll need. Factor in any living costs too, OK?” Draco nodded, his face once more relieved.

“Thank you, Harry,” he said, once more full of gratitude. Now Harry felt Draco was sorted, he really wanted to know what had happened to _Tom_. Much as he was glad that Draco had managed to fall on his feet despite Harry being inconveniently unconscious, he was rather more concerned with the man who was still a slave, and thereby completely dependent on him.

“And Tom?” he prompted Draco. The blond hesitated for a moment.

“All I know is that Minister Shacklebolt said he was going to assign an Auror as Tom’s temporary master.”

“An Auror?” Harry repeated in surprise. “He said that specifically, did he?” he questioned Draco sharply.

“Yes master,” Draco replied automatically, and then winced and corrected himself. “Harry.” Harry gave him a sympathetic look – he knew how hard habits could be to break. An Auror…what had Kingsley been thinking? Harry had thought it had been made plain that Harry expected one of his friends to be chosen as caretaker – the only reason he’d left it up to Kingsley was because he figured that first, the man had the authority to see it done and second, if the friend he chose was out of action for whatever reason…it wouldn’t be a good thing. At least, as Minister, Harry had figured that he would be one of the most protected people around. Well, hopefully he’d at least chosen someone sympathetic to the cause.

“Mr Malfoy,” a voice said from the doorway. They both turned to look: it was Healer Pinflower. “I must ask you to leave now so I can speak to Mr Potter.” Draco dipped his head in acquiescence.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, still with a note of submission in his voice. He flashed a look at Harry, but Harry just smiled encouragingly at him without giving any signs of the permission he thought Draco might be searching for. Finally, Draco looked away and took in a deep breath, standing up determinedly. He walked towards the doorway, but paused just before exiting the room.

“You’ll send me an owl with the appointment with the goblins, won’t you, H-Harry?” he asked, a tone that was almost reminiscent of the old Draco Malfoy showing through. Harry dipped his head.

“Sure. Like I said, I’ll set it up as soon as possible.” He flicked his eyes to the healer and then back to the blond. “I’m sure the healer will tell me when that’s likely to be.”

“Not today, Mr Potter,” she responded with a small smile. Then, with a final look and nod, Draco disappeared. Harry’s eyes followed him for a moment, the realisation that Draco was no longer his responsibility lifting a weight off his shoulders. He’d be interested in seeing the blond’s progress, he decided, but he in no way wanted to be _responsible_ for the man any longer. Healer Pinflower approached his bedside. “How are you feeling? You slipped away quite quickly last time you woke.”

“Yes,” Harry admitted. He considered her question. “Better, mostly. More able to stay awake, at least.” The healer nodded.

“Good, good. Any headache?” Harry thought about it.

“A small one, but nothing serious,” he answered. In fact, his body seemed a little numb. He said as much. The healer frowned.

“That could be the effect of the pain potions you recently had. We’ll let them wear off and see how things are then.” Harry nodded slowly, slightly displeased – it didn’t sound like he was getting out of the hospital that day.

“When do you think I can leave?” he asked, his tone hopeful. She gave him an amused look.

“Already longing to be away from my company? I didn’t think my bedside manner was _that_ bad,” she joked gently. Harry rushed to reassure her that it wasn’t, but when he saw the small smile on her face, he stopped and just rolled his eyes, wincing when it aggravated his headache. Becoming more serious, the healer continued. “I’d like to keep you in for observation overnight at least. Your tests are coming back with positive results – the swelling in your brain caused by the impact with the ground has almost completely disappeared, and your skull fracture has sealed correctly. Your other injuries were much easier to deal with and were completely healed more than a week ago – it was your concussion and subsequent coma that was worrying us; since you’ve woken up by yourself and are clearly capable of carrying out a conversation, I think you’ll be fine leaving tomorrow.”

Tomorrow wasn’t too bad, Harry supposed. Hopefully Tom could deal with another day wherever he was. Somehow, knowing that he wasn’t with one of Harry’s friends, as expected, left an apprehensive lump in his stomach. To take his mind off it, he asked a question which he had been wondering since waking up to find Healer Pinflower next to him the first time.

“So did they assign you to my case because I’d already met you, or…?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at her questioningly.

“I asked to be assigned to you,” she replied, levelly. Harry’s eyebrows went higher in his surprise.

“Why?” She took a moment to answer, looking at him thoughtfully.

“When you brought your slave here the first time, I feared that you were just another slave master, someone who so carelessly spent minutes doing damage that would give a healer hours of work, only to leave your slave in pain because you couldn’t be bothered to get treatment for him unless it was absolutely necessary.” Harry felt a little disheartened by her words: he thought he’d demonstrated how different he was… She clearly saw his disappointment as she hurried on to explain. “I said that’s what I thought the _first_ time. Then I realised how much you were actually willing to do for your slave’s health and well-being, not to mention the fact that he confirmed your story of his injuries coming from him saving your life.

“Later, I saw that news article you did an interview for, and then the subsequent news articles around you and your efforts, and I realised that not only were you a decent person to your own slave, but you were trying to help all the _others_ too. And now…” she hesitated for another moment before continuing. “I saw what your other slave, Mr Malfoy, looked like in the newspaper article. I read what you said about his behaviour. I could believe it, from the case notes on slaves previously admitted to St Mungo’s. And I’ve seen what he’s like now.” She shook her head with amazement. “The _difference_ you have wrought on him…It’s amazing,” she finished in tones of awe. Harry ducked his head, uncomfortable with the expression dedicated to him. “So, I just wanted to say ‘thank you’ by letting you have a familiar face when you woke up.”

“It wasn’t just me,” he muttered finally. “I couldn’t have done it without Tom,” he emphasised. She winced slightly at Tom’s name.

“I didn’t realise who… _he_ was when I was treating him,” she murmured. “I don’t know if I would have treated him the same way if I had,” she admitted. Well, at least she was honest. “But I suppose…if you say he was instrumental in helping Mr Malfoy, then he can’t be all bad.” Harry agreed, but felt that there was an important distinction to make, one which he kept _having_ to make – and probably would continue needing to for years yet.

“Voldemort _was_ as bad as they say, and worse,” he replied, his tone dark. “But Tom isn’t Voldemort, not anymore. Nor will he ever be again,” he finished, looking at the healer steadily. She held her silence for a few moments before nodding slowly.

“I suppose you’d know, Mr Potter,” she allowed. “Now, let me just do some quick tests…”

XXX

 _Finally_ , Harry thought with relief. Fortunately, Healer Pinflower’s prediction of him being able to leave the next day had proven true and he was now leaving St Mungo’s after having signed permission for the hospital to submit a bill to Gringotts on his behalf. He had been interested to realise that because of the subsidies that were given to the hospital from the Ministry, his own hospital bill had been a fraction of the one he had paid for Tom, despite the much longer time he’d spent under the healers’ care. Now he understood how the Weasleys could have paid for Arthur’s stay at the hospital during his fifth year at Hogwarts: he had been wondering about that.

Having left the hospital, his first stop needed to be the Ministry, Kingsley’s office specifically. By this point, he was itching to know what had happened to his slave, hoping that he had been treated well by whoever had been given power over him, since it wasn’t Kingsley himself. Surely Kingsley would have chosen someone decent…? Harry could understand why the Minister might not have wanted to have both Tom and Snape under the same roof: Merlin, Harry wouldn’t have wanted it either! But why the man hadn’t chosen one of Harry’s friends to look after him, was beyond Harry.

“Oh, Mr Potter!” the receptionist said with wide-eyed surprise. Harry vaguely recognised him. Felix? Flavicus? F-something, he was pretty sure. “You’re recovered! Congratulations.” Then, as if realising how inappropriate it was to offer _congratulations_ to someone for getting injured and then recovering, the man looked embarrassed and stuttered through an attempt at a correction. “Uh, I-I mean, uh, well done? No, I mean-“ Harry cut him off, not really having the patience.

“Thank you for your well wishes. Is Kingsley available?” The receptionist seemed a little more on solid ground.

“He’s currently in a meeting, but I’ll see if he can spare you a few moments.” So saying, he went to the door to the main office and slipped inside. A few moments later, he returned bearing a piece of parchment. “I’m afraid he’s occupied right now, although he says he’ll be done in about ten, fifteen minutes if you want to wait. However, he _did_ anticipate what he thought your most likely question would be and wrote an answer here.” So saying, the man handed the piece of parchment over. Harry read it.

_Hello Harry,_

_Excellent news to hear that you are up and about in the world of the living once more! I imagine that you are interested in finding Tom. He’s been in the care of Auror Richards, an Auror currently assigned to a desk job. You should find him in the Auror Office – level two._

_Best,_

_Kingsley_

Nodding in satisfaction, Harry thanked the receptionist and then left the office. He walked through the Ministry, eagerness to collect Tom thrumming through him and increasing his pace until it almost became a run on open stretches. The knowledge that Tom had been with an unknown man, this Auror Richards, for just over two weeks lent urgency to his movements: if it had been one of Harry’s friends, he wouldn’t have felt so pressed because he would have known they were treating Tom right. This stranger, however? He had no clue, though he trusted Kingsley not to assign a sadistic master to Tom.

Entering the Aurors’ headquarters on level two, he took a moment to take in the sight. He’d seen this once before, in his fifth year, but the cluttered open area buzzing with life still impressed him. He could definitely see himself working in this friendly atmosphere. There was a sudden pause in the conversations near him and then the chatter erupted, louder than before. Harry was used to it, so he just turned to a red-robed Auror at the desk nearest the door when she spoke.

“Mr Potter, welcome to the Auror Office. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Auror Richards,” he replied.

“Ah, he’s over there,” she told him, pointing deeper into the sea of desks and waist-high cubicles. Suddenly, Harry saw movement coming towards him. That dark hair and the flash of red eyes he saw were unmistakable, even if he had been able to forget the rest of what the man looked like. A moment later, Tom dropped to his knees in front of him, his posture slumped and head lowered.

“Master,” he heard exclaimed in a voice that was full of relief, longing, fear and far too many other sensations to name. “Master,” Tom repeated, a little quieter, but almost sobbing. Feeling concerned at how much emotion Tom was showing – in public! – Harry looked down at him.

“Tom, hey,” he said gently. “I’m here,” he reassured while moving his hand towards his slave’s head, intending on trying to calm the man down in the best way he knew. And then…Tom _flinched_. Not just a little, almost unnoticeable flinch either. No, this one was _violent_ , accompanied by a shifting of movement in Tom’s arms which Harry really _, really_ hoped was not him wanting to raise his arms defensively. Then, a moment later, the man was apologising.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he choked out in a voice filled with panic. What had _happened_ to him while Harry had been unconscious? Harry hesitated, not sure whether to continue moving his hand towards Tom or to take it away. Without knowing what the man had gone through, it was hard to decide. “Please touch me, I’m sorry,” Tom pleaded, moving so that his head was nudging Harry’s hand. Oh, well, at least that helped him solve his dilemma. He shifted his hand closer and started stroking through Tom’s hair which, he realised with a frown, felt sticky and greasy as if it hadn’t been washed in a while. Tom _never_ allowed himself to stay dirty for long – he was a bit particular like that. If his hair _was_ dirty, it meant that he hadn’t been given the opportunity to get clean. Not liking the implications of that one bit, Harry nonetheless tried to control his anger.

“Don’t worry, Tom, It’s OK. I’m not angry at _you_ ,” he attempted to reassure. When he saw the tension being released, he felt satisfied. However, something that made him very _unsatisfied_ was the physical state which Tom was in. Even from above and unable to see much past Tom’s hair, Harry could see how thin his wrists were, how they trembled almost imperceptibly. He could see the stains on Tom’s clothes and the heavy chain which trailed behind him, clearly attached to his collar as a leash. And the sight made him _angry_. Looking up, he spotted a man standing not far from him with his arms crossed.

“Auror Richards, I presume,” he stated icily. The man gave him a short nod. “What the _hell_ have you done to my slave?” he demanded. The man snorted.

“I treated him the way _you_ should have been treating him all along. I’ve never _met_ such a defiant slave before. Over-fed, over-indulged…you should be grateful.” The feeling of rage building within Harry was incandescent.

“Grateful?” he hissed, aware that they were being watched by everyone in ear-shot. “If Tom’s been fighting you for the last two weeks, it’s a sign that your methods _haven’t been working_. I haven’t had a problem with him for _months_.”

“Except for that whole thing in public a few weeks ago,” the Auror pointed out with a sneer.

“That wasn’t defiance,” Harry told him angrily, staring him in the eye. “That was him losing control because of factors you aren’t aware of. Tell me, has he been helpful? Has he fulfilled your unspoken wishes or only the orders you gave him? Heck, did you actually give him permission to come to me? I doubt you were even aware I was here at that point.” When the Auror’s gaze wavered, he had his answer. “That’s what I thought. Face it, Richards. Your methods didn’t work. All Tom was doing was biding his time and following your explicit commands because if he didn’t, no doubt you punished him brutally. You haven’t earned a _speck_ of loyalty from him. He saved my life a few months ago; he probably wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.” Holding the man’s gaze for a few more seconds, he finally turned away when Richards broke eye contact first.

Crouching down, Harry gently lifted Tom’s chin until he could see the way the leash was attached to his collar. Making a disbelieving noise at his discovery that the end of the chain was actually _padlocked_ on to Tom’s collar, he looked back up at the Auror.

“You seriously had to _lock_ this on him? What, you were afraid that he was going to take it off while your back was turned?” he jibed at the man.

“More like I’m not an idiot to trust him in the room with me when I slept without it, Potter,” the man snapped back. Harry froze. He didn’t mean…?

“You didn’t force him to…to _sleep_ with you, did you?” he asked, his tone quiet but even more dangerous for it. The Auror snorted.

“Like I’d touch another man’s sloppy seconds? And I’m not a cock-lover, besides. No, he was chained against the wall so I could keep an eye on him even at night, because I’m _not_ a trusting fool.” Harry was at once relieved…and further angered. Sure, at least it sounded like Tom hadn’t been sexually assaulted, which, frankly, was something Harry hadn’t even _wanted_ to think about, but at the same time, he’d clearly been treated abominably.

Casting a spell at the padlock, he opened it easily: it wasn’t warded in the slightest against magic because its sole purpose was to ensure that the slave it was attached to couldn’t remove it. Pulling it off, he stood up and threw the chain at Richards’ feet, not missing the sheer weight of it which had no doubt been dragging at Tom’s neck for the last however long. 

“Here,” he said, that one word full of spite. “I’ve never needed a chain to feel safe around Tom or to make him obey. You can keep your _chains_ , if they make you feel better.”

“Your funeral,” the Auror said, picking it up casually.

“It will be yours if I find any evidence at all that you have exceeded your role with him,” Harry warned him. “Be assured that I’ll be making a report of any abuse he has sustained.” The Auror shrugged.

“Go ahead. You won’t find anything. I’ve been the master _you_ should have been, but I’m not a sadistic abuser.” Doubting that very much, Harry decided that he needed to get out of the situation before he truly lost his temper and did something he would regret later.

“Tom, up,” he told his slave, softening his tone slightly. The man immediately obeyed, head bowed, posture submissive. Casting one more scathing glance at Richards and then around the Auror Office, Harry strode out, Tom following him barely a pace behind.

XXX

Tom followed his master, the joy and relief of being with him again, of being rid of the hated Auror, keeping him on his feet, despite his pain, exhaustion and weakness. Then Master stopped and he almost crashed into the man, his reflexes nowhere near what they usually were. A moment later, he dropped to his knees, not sure why they had stopped, but his recent experiences with Richards reminding him of what he needed to do.

“Tom, it’s OK, I just wanted to talk to you. Why don’t you stand up?” Tom contemplated the prospect with apprehension, but Master had asked, so he obeyed, satisfaction running through him when he managed to struggle to his feet once more, swaying a little as he stood in place. Ah, to be with his beloved master once more…It felt like he’d finally come home. The collar seemed to agree because it sent a small lick of pleasure through him as he obeyed, something which he had hated on the rare occasion it had happened with Richards, but now…now he didn’t understand why he had hated it so much at the beginning. This was his master, why wouldn’t he welcome it? “Tom…” his master started, sounding concerned. The slave lifted his eyes slightly so he could see more of his master’s face, although didn’t meet his eyes – he knew better than to do that.

“Yes, master?” he prompted, wondering if his master wanted to know that his slave was listening. Master sighed.

“I need to talk to Kingsley, but to be honest, I’m not sure if I shouldn’t just go straight home with you. You look awful.” Tom felt a wave of guilt go through him that his condition might stop his master from doing something he needed to do.

“Master, I’m fine,” he assured the man, trying to inject as much confidence as he could into his voice, though aware that it probably came out sounding more tired than anything else.

“Hmm.” His master didn’t sound convinced so Tom did his best to straighten up, to make himself look a bit less pitiful than he knew he probably did.

“Master, I can keep going for as long as you need,” he tried again, hoping that he wasn’t speaking out of turn. There was a pause.

“Alright,” Master said finally, reluctance in his voice. Tom felt a wave of relief run through him, wiping out the guilt which had been curling in his stomach. If his master had delayed his meeting just because of his slave…Tom didn’t want to think about it. They set off once more, heading towards the Minister’s office, Tom contentedly falling into place behind his master’s shoulder and keeping careful pace with him as he moved.

XXX

Harry had to admit that he was worried about Tom. The man hadn’t been acting right at all. Little wonder, he supposed. That Auror’s words… _‘over-fed, over-indulged’…’chained to my wall_ ’… it was probably safe to say that Tom had been experiencing a much more traditional style of slavery than what he was used to. Certainly, Harry recognised the dark circles under his eyes as sleep deprivation, and he suspected the tremors running constantly through him were at least partially caused by hunger.

But it was the other reactions that were worrying Harry. Tom was being…very submissive. More so than Harry was used to. His posture was slumped, he wouldn’t meet Harry’s gaze and he was using ‘master’ in every sentence, his tone soft and obedient. Perhaps it was because they were in public…but Harry had some doubts about that. He also doubted about whether it was a good idea to speak to Kingsley now, given everything wrong with Tom, but in some ways, it would be better to strike while the iron was hot, so to speak.

Since Tom was at least mobile and conversant, Kingsley seeing him directly after the fact was probably the best option. And he supposed that if Tom started deteriorating, it would be a good excuse to cut the meeting short, leaving the Minister with an impression which would put him on a better footing in their next conversation. So thinking, Harry walked to the Minister’s office, Tom sticking close behind. They didn’t pass many people in the corridors, which was a blessing, but those they did pass predictably stared at them.

Fortunately, by the time they got to Kingsley’s office, whoever the visitors were who had been there when Harry had visited last, had gone. The receptionist, whose name was really annoying Harry because it was on the tip of his tongue – Fantus? Faun? – waved them through immediately, though he, too, stared at Tom.

“Harry,” Kingsley greeted warmly as they entered, but his smile faltered a little as he saw the dark expression on Harry’s face and Tom’s condition. Harry didn’t respond, just taking a seat at the desk, Tom swiftly kneeling beside him with his head down. Unable to prevent himself, Harry reached over the arm of the chair and started carding through his hair. Tom relaxed immediately, in fact shuffling forwards a bit so he was next to Harry’s knees, rather than the chair.

When Harry lifted his hand away for a moment, to resettle himself, Tom tensed again, and sent a glance back, as if worried that he’d done something wrong. Harry immediately started stroking through his hair again, pulling his head against his thighs. Tom relaxed completely, leaning into Harry’s legs in the way he often did. Harry was glad to see that _something_ hadn’t changed, at least. Looking up at Kingsley, he saw the man watching them closely, his eyes sharp.

“Kingsley, why exactly did you choose to give Tom to an Auror instead of Hermione or Neville? Heck, any of the members of the campaign group would have been better!” The man didn’t answer for a moment.

“I take it you are displeased with Auror Richards’ care?” he responded carefully. Harry’s face twisted in anger, and he wanted to shout as the fury rose inside him once more. Aware, though, of the slave leaning against his legs, he breathed through his emotion and responded in a manner as calm and controlled as he could make it.

“I haven’t found out everything he’s done to Tom yet, but surely you can see the differences between Tom two weeks ago and now?”

“He does look thinner,” Kingsley allowed slowly.

“Thinner, and exhausted, and skittish,” Harry snapped at him. “And who knows what else! I haven’t even asked if Tom’s injured in anyway. Tom?” he said towards his slave, deciding that it was information worth knowing.

“Master?” his slave’s voice replied, his tone that of uncertainty.

“Are you injured in any way?” Harry repeated, a wave of concern running through him: Tom was _always_ aware of his surroundings, of the conversation going on around him. The only times Harry could think of that he _hadn’t been_ were when he was severely exhausted from either pain or sleep deprivation, or both.

“Bruises, master. Perhaps a cracked rib. Welts on my back,” he listed, tonelessly. Harry clenched his teeth as a wave of rage ran through him again. Sure, none of those were _life-threatening_ , but they were all indications of two weeks which had clearly been tortuous for Tom. _And completely undeserved_ , thought Harry angrily. Once more, he tried to breathe through his anger – erupting right now wouldn’t solve anything, and he wasn’t fifteen any longer.

“I repeat – why did you choose Auror Richards to be Tom’s caretaker instead of someone we _knew_?”

“Harry, _I_ knew Auror Richards – I worked with him for many years before the whole war started properly and I had to quit.”

“So are you saying that you knew he would treat Tom like this?” Because if he said yes…Harry would not be responsible for his actions, and he vowed that he would do his best to see Kingsley replaced as Minister, for all that he had had a hand in getting the man into office. Fortunately – for Kingsley – he sighed and looked away at the question.

“No,” he admitted. “I didn’t realise he would be quite as harsh as he seems to have been. He was always a reasonable Auror and didn’t have any close friends or family who were adversely affected by the war. I thought he was a better option than those who had been in the front lines or who had been personally affected. Although, you do have to recognise, Harry, that he has acted perfectly within the limits of master-slave treatment, from what you’ve said so far.”

“I don’t have to bloody well recognise it when Tom should never have been _with_ him in the first place!” Harry told the man, unable to stop his voice rising in his anger. When he felt Tom tense slightly under his fingers, he immediately gripped his ire and wrestled it into submission, breathing in a deep breath and blowing it out. When he continued, his voice was calmer again, though no less intense. “You have still not offered me a good explanation for why you chose an _Auror_ to be Tom’s caretaker instead of one of my friends or our campaign group.”

“I couldn’t,” exclaimed Kingsley, leaning forwards.

“Why not?” Harry challenged.

“Because of who you are. Because of who _he_ is,” the Minister said, gesturing impatiently at Tom. “He was Lord Voldemort!” When Harry opened his mouth to refute Tom being Lord Voldemort, Kingsley put up a hand to stop him. “Yes, I know what you’re going to say, and it doesn’t matter. Maybe he _has_ recognised the error of his ways and now wants to create a care-home for cats, dogs and butterflies, but very few people will believe that!” The image of Tom going all goo-eyed over a kitten or a puppy sent an inappropriate wave of amusement through Harry, but a moment later Kingsley’s words sank in.

“OK, so say that’s true, what’s your point?” Harry questioned impatiently.

“Think about it, Harry. Your slave, the former Lord Voldemort, creates an incident in Diagon Alley which your opposition uses as a way to portray him as dangerous, uncontrolled. You try to do some damage control at a press conference, but are attacked and sent to hospital, leaving your slave master-less. Your slave gets handed over to one of your friends, someone known to be part of the campaign group which is considered by a large group of people to be anti-slavery. How do you think that looks?” He didn’t wait long enough for Harry to answer. “It looks like your slave is getting special treatment. It looks like Lord Voldemort might be pulling the strings from the background. It looks like I, as the Minister, have a certain stake in the proceedings.”

Out of all of those reasons, it was the last one which sounded like the driving force behind Kingsley’s motivations. The realisation that, despite everything, Kingsley was just another politician who would do anything for power, was surprisingly hurtful. He had trusted Kingsley, had trusted him with someone who was completely dependent on him; someone who he was coming to realise was precious to him. And Kingsley had given that person over to someone who abused him. Harry didn’t care what the laws said about abuse for slaves – he knew what Tom needed to keep him in line, and this was not it. This was way, _way_ overkill. It was abuse in _Harry’s_ book.

And Harry got it. Harry understood that Kingsley didn’t realise how much Tom had changed – he hadn’t been there; he hadn’t seen it. He realised that for Kingsley, Tom was still primarily the later version of Voldemort. But the point was that Kingsley had betrayed his trust, had gone against his wishes and as a result, someone who Harry cared for had been hurt. And the worse thing was? It was politically motivated.

“I’m sorry, Kingsley,” Harry said finally, but his tone was not apologetic. Instead, it channelled the frustration and the anger he was feeling at how Tom had been used as a political pawn. Nevertheless, the Minister looked confused.

“Sorry for what?”

“Clearly, I put you in a difficult position. I gave you authority over Tom’s collar because of our friendship, but evidently your position of Minister took precedence in your decision-making. I hereby withdraw any and all power you have over Tom. I wouldn’t want to put you in the position of having to choose whether to pursue a political aim, or an ethical one,” he finished, somewhat savagely. Kingsley’s eyes went wide.

“But what if something like this happens again, Harry? As an Auror, you’ll face dangerous situations on at least a semi-regular basis.”

“ _If_ I choose to become an Auror,” Harry emphasised, suddenly uncertain about his aims from what he had seen that day, “then I will make other arrangements. I will speak to Neville and Hermione and, if they consent, give them both authority over Tom in the event of an emergency. They will _not_ be able to pass on that control, but with two of them available, there should always be someone who can take him, if necessary.” Harry met Kingsley’s eyes and let him see the true depth of both his conviction, and his feelings of betrayal at the man’s actions. Finally, the man nodded slowly.

“Very well, Harry. If you believe that is best.”

“I do,” he replied firmly. “Because, frankly, I don’t trust that if the situation occurs again, you won’t put politics before people in the future.”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Kingsley said, genuine apology in his voice, but also the hint of a barb. “I hadn’t realised how… _attached_ you had become to him.” Harry wanted to snap back, but managed to control himself in time.

“It’s not about whether I’m _attached_ or not, Kingsley,” he said finally. “It’s about us agreeing something while I was conscious, and then you changing it when I couldn’t object. It’s about _trust_ , and you broke it,” he finished, all anger leaving him and just replaced by hurt and a bone-deep tiredness. Kingsley regarded him for a few more moments, and then Harry saw the mask of the Minister drop for the first time since he’d entered the office.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and this time it was just pure remorse. “I didn’t mean…but I can see how you’d see it that way.” Harry nodded, but didn’t respond: what could he say? Kingsley knew how much Dumbledore’s machinations had hurt Harry: they’d talked about it during the war over a fire-whiskey after a raid that had gone horribly wrong. He knew how much it meant for Harry to give his trust, although he didn’t know the half of it in terms of _why_. So this…? This was more than a slap in the face. But, at least it did seem like he _hadn’t_ actually intended all the consequences, so Harry wouldn’t actively oppose him. He’d have to do a lot to get into Harry’s good books, though, if he hoped for the ‘Saviour’ to _endorse_ him again. And as for their ‘friendship’…well, Harry would have to see. He wouldn’t be trusting the man with any sort of power over Tom again, that was for sure.

“Now,” Harry started, wanting to shift this conversation on, desiring nothing more than to go home. “Did your expedient manoeuvring actually work? Did the regulation pass?” There was a moment where Kingsley kept eyeing him warily and then he sighed and accepted the change of topic.

“Yes, actually. The Wizengamot members in general were outraged that someone would try once more to pervert justice through violence that there was very little actual opposition to the regulation.” Harry was pleased at that – at least all their hard work hadn’t been for naught. Though, the Minister’s words did bring to mind a question.

“Was there some sort of connection between our opposition and the attack, then?”

“Actually, yes, but no one knew it at that point – it was just the coincidence of you speaking out about the issue, and then being attacked which made many people angry. However, after the Aurors investigated the scene and examined the enchanted device which was rigged to explode when you came into close proximity, they were able to follow a series of links back to one of the main opposition leaders.” Harry’s eyebrows rose.

“Dogbane?”

“No, Duval.” Harry’s eyebrows went higher, and he felt a grin pulling at his lips.

“Excellent,” he said, almost gleefully. Duval was almost better than Dogbane – he was the main bank-roller of the group and without him on their side, they would struggle to put out as much publicity as they had been. Actually, Harry had heard someone say at some point that the man owned one of the other Malfoys, though he wasn’t sure if it was Lucius or Narcissa. He hadn’t been at the Ministry ball because he had apparently been sick, but Harry suspected it was more that he disapproved of the direction the Ministry was taking. Kingsley nodded, a small smile appearing on his face.

“Indeed. I’m sure Dogbane knew about any plans, but he’s avowing innocence and ignorance, and there isn’t sufficient evidence of his involvement to pull him in for questioning. Duval, of course, is screaming about a set-up, is doing his best to get the charges dismissed…” Kingsley shrugged. “He’ll be going to trial soon, so I guess we’ll see what comes out of that.” Harry nodded, his mind working busily.

“If we’re likely to encounter reduced opposition, we can probably move a little faster on some of the changes we’re planning to propose.”

“Not too fast,” Kingsley warned. “We’re riding the high of it now, but push too fast and there _will_ be a backlash.” Harry sighed but agreed. In theory.

“Still, I can at least get moving on the loans now the charity’s formalities have been accomplished…should have been accomplished, at least. And maybe setting up a halfway house for released slaves.”

“A halfway house?” Kingsley asked with a frown.

“Yeah,” Harry said, but his eyes on Tom, he decided not to explain. “I’ll tell you about it later, if you like. Right now, though, I think we need to be getting home – I think Tom’s reached his limit.” When the man didn’t even twitch at the sound of his name – in fact, was he _dozing_? – Harry knew that his words were truer than he had thought.

“Alright. Just one more thing, Harry,” Kingsley said nonchalantly, but Harry’s attention sharpened at the hidden note of concern in his voice.

“Yes?” he asked warily. Kingsley reached into a drawer in his desk and brought out a familiar pale wand, laying it on the desk between them.

“The Auror who collected Tom and Draco from your house found this on him. Why exactly did he have it? He said you let him have it, but I am slightly concerned about that.”

“Why?” Harry asked, playing for time as his mind went over the possibilities. He’d emphasised to Tom how much he _didn’t_ want anyone else knowing about his permission for Tom to use magic in the house; had given him permission to lie to anyone else about it. Since Kingsley wasn’t immediately jumping down his throat, he had to guess that Tom hadn’t told him the truth. Or not the complete truth, at least. Harry knew from his own experience that peppering a lie with judicious truth could be the difference between it being accepted and being rejected.

“Surely you can understand how I might be concerned that you’re allowing the leader of two wars, a man infamous for his grasp of a wide range of magic, the ability to use magic?”

“If you’re worried that he could use magic to control me, don’t be,” Harry said dryly. “I’m rather good at throwing that off.” Although, as he said it, his mind flashed back to that duel where Tom _had_ controlled his actions. Maybe not directly, but it had happened, and it reminded Harry that he needed to overcome that spell somehow. Back to this, though…what might Tom have said? He must have conceded _some_ magic use at least – Harry couldn’t think of any explanation that might convince Kingsley as to why Tom might have his wand without being able to use magic. Maybe…

He sighed, more for the looks of it than anything else. “I’ve given Tom permission to use magic for certain jobs around the house. Things like gardening – you won’t believe the kind of monsters years of neglect can create in a Wizarding garden,” he moaned, shaking his head in real disbelief. Because honestly, it was more like a jungle out there, where all the animals, both predators and prey, were plant-based. Clearly it was taking even _Tom_ a long time to deal with them all – although Harry had a sneaky suspicion that he was drawing out for longer than necessary because he actually enjoyed it.

Surreptitiously looking at Kingsley’s face, he didn’t see any sort of suspicion, so clearly his answer wasn’t too different from whatever Tom had said. Not breathing a sigh of relief, because that would _definitely_ look suspicious, Harry tried to move the conversation on. Reaching out, he took Tom’s wand from Kingsley’s desk and slipped it into his pocket – thank Merlin for expanded pockets, otherwise a thirteen inch wand would most certainly not fit in his trousers!

“If that’s everything…?” he said leadingly, raising his eyebrows at Kingsley. The man nodded. “Alright,” he said, looking down at Tom who was absolutely dozing against his leg. “Tom,” he said quietly, and then when that didn’t get any response, he said it again, louder this time and tapping Tom’s head with a finger. Tom gasped and flinched forwards, away from Harry’s hand; Harry frowned at the reaction. Did he have an injury there…? All the more reason to get home as soon as possible. “Easy,” he said soothingly. “I just wanted your attention.”

“I’m sorry, master,” Tom murmured, sounding almost fearful. Harry’s concern just increased. He carefully didn’t look at Kingsley, suspecting that if he did, he would lose his temper again, and just delay them further.

“Come on, up you get,” Harry ordered gently, standing up himself now Tom wasn’t actually leaning on him. His slave obeyed without a word, his head down. “I’ll see you later,” he threw at Kingsley, his tone slightly short with his renewed anger. He saw the man nod in his peripheral vision, and then he left the office without another word.

XXX

The world around Tom seemed distant, detached. It almost felt like a pane of glass lay between him and everything else, and the only thing that was truly present was his master’s presence, his master’s touch as he was pulled through the tight tube of apparition. When they landed, it was only Master’s hand on his arm that stopped him from toppling over completely.

“Merlin, Tom,” he heard in his ear as his master’s warm arm came around his chest to support him. He basked in Master’s presence, in the way having him near made something inside him warm and dance with joy. Then he realised they were moving forward and into the house that he truly felt was home now. They approached the stairs.

“Right, let’s get you to bed, then. You look like you’re about to collapse.” Suddenly, the idea of being away from Master so soon was unbearable.

“No, please master,” he begged, his tone desperate. His master looked at him in surprise.

“What’s the problem? I promise I’m not going to chain you up to a wall,” he replied, obviously trying to joke, but Tom wasn’t really capable of reacting to that at this point.

“Please don’t make me leave you.”

“I’m not going to go anywhere – you’ll be up in your room and I’ll be in the sitting room as normal.”

“Master…I just…” Tom didn’t know how to put his thoughts into words, didn’t know if he even _deserved_ to be close to his master. He just…he didn’t want to lose this, not even for a moment. Not even to go and get the sleep he desperately craved. Master gave him a considering look and raised his wand. Tom almost flinched at the sight, but he was able to overcome his initial reaction because Master had never hurt him with his wand, unlike Richards. Sure enough, when a wave of magic went over him, he didn’t feel any pain.

“Alright,” his master said thoughtfully, clearly studying the results of the spell. “Come on, then,” he said, walking down the corridor. Tom followed him to the sitting room. Expecting his master to head over to his desk as usual, and anticipating dozing against his leg while he studied, Tom was surprised when his master instead headed towards the sofa they had used once before. Sitting down on one side, he patted the area next to him. “Lie down here and put your head in my lap,” he instructed briskly. His eyes wide, Tom obeyed; the soft cushions of the sofa feeling like a cloud to his aching muscles.

Putting his head in his master’s lap as commanded, he closed his eyes in pleasure as those fingers stroked through his hair, each caress taking more and more tension away. “Hey, maybe take your shoes off before falling asleep,” Master suggested with a note of amusement in his voice. Opening his eyes again, Tom blushed slightly – he was being a bad slave, dirtying his master’s couch with his shoes. Leaning up, he quickly rid himself of them, and then cast an unsure look at his master. When Master just beckoned him, he lay back down with a sigh. A few moments later, a warm weight landed on him and he looked down to find that the man had got a blanket from somewhere and had flicked it over him. He’d also produced a book for himself and just looked down at Tom with his eyebrows raised.

“Thank you, master,” he said fervently, meaning it with all his heart. Master just smiled at him, the warmth in it lighting up his eyes and making them sparkle like gems.

“You’re welcome,” he said quietly, smoothing a hand once more over Tom’s forehead and through his hair as he turned to his book. Tom just let his eyes close, and allowed himself to finally relax. Master was here and everything was right with the world again.

XXX

When he woke up, he was feeling _much_ better. His stomach was still trying to eat itself; his head was still pounding fit to burst; and his various aches and pains reminded him of their presence the moment he shifted even slightly. But none of that mattered. Not when he woke up on a surface more comfortable than he’d been on in over two weeks, and immediately smelt the scent of his master. He even spent a few moments just breathing it in, luxuriating in the heat beneath his head and the smell in his nostrils.

A touch to his temples made him flinch ever so slightly, but the hand just hesitated a moment before stroking through his hair. He relaxed once more with a slight sigh of contentedness. That touch told him that he was home, that he was safe, that he was welcome. That he was…wanted, if only as a possession.

“Awake, are you?” Harry’s slightly amused voice asked quietly. Tom opened his eyes, reluctant to leave the safe space they’d created, but not wanting to seem ungrateful by ignoring his master.

“Just,” he admitted, with a small hint of a smile. Harry’s answering smile lit up his face like a Christmas tree.

“Ah, there you are. I was getting worried,” he said with a distinct note of relief. Tom frowned.

“What do you mean?” Harry’s smile dimmed a bit, and turned sad.

“Earlier…you seemed completely out of it. I was worried that Richards had….had broken something in you.” Tom understood what he meant, for all that he hadn’t explained it very well. He shook his head a little.

“It’s OK, master. Now I’m back here…Now I know you’re alright…It’s OK,” he tried to reassure Harry, not feeling like he did a very good job when Harry’s gaze turned almost piercing. Still, it seemed like the man didn’t want to pursue the subject, as his next words changed it to something Tom was much happier to discuss.

“Right, well, let’s go and get some food. I’m _starving_ ,” he said with a slightly joking tone.

“So am I,” Tom replied completely seriously. Harry looked down at him with a smile, but his amusement faded as he realised that Tom wasn’t joining in on the joke.

“Seriously?” Harry asked. Tom nodded. “When did you last eat?” Harry continued. Tom thought for a few moments. Honestly, the last _week_ had passed by in a blur of hunger, exhaustion and pain.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, not actually able to identify his last meal. It hadn’t been that day…had it been the day before? The day before that? Harry stared at him, anger entering his expression. It should have been scary: whenever he’d seen anger recently, it had always spelled trouble for him, after all. But it didn’t, because this was Harry, and Tom knew that Harry only got angry at him when _deserved_ it.

“Soup it is, then,” Harry sighed, clearly pushing the anger back and nudging Tom so he moved upright slowly. “Come on,” he instructed, not that he needed to – Tom was determined not to be separated from his master again, not unless it was absolutely necessary. Going into the kitchen, Tom headed directly to the sink, his throat begging for something soothing, but he hesitated before filling the glass he picked up. Every thought in his mind was insisting that Harry wouldn’t mind…but something still held him back.

“Master, may I…?” he asked, gesturing at the tap. Harry looked at him in confusion and then a plethora of emotions flashed across his face, too quickly for Tom to identify any of them.

“Of course,” he said finally, his voice and expression very controlled. “Whenever you want.” Tom bowed his head for a moment.

“Thank you, master,” he said gratefully, warmth filling him once again at the additional reminder that he was home; that he was again in a place where his most basic needs were allowed to be fulfilled without humiliation, without pain. He filled the glass and drank deeply. Then again. And then once more before he stopped, still thirsty, but knowing that if he continued, he’d be sick. He washed up the glass quickly, setting it on the drying board and then closed his eyes for a moment as he leaned on the side, fighting back inappropriate tears. He sniffed as one dropped out, rolling down his nose and plopping into the sink.

“Merlin, Tom,” Master murmured, his voice soft. And at the kindness in it, the concern, Tom couldn’t stop another tear from escaping, and then a third. A soft touch on his shoulder made him flinch, but this time his master didn’t move away; instead, he reached around Tom to turn him gently to the side and draw him down into an embrace.

That was all it took to let the dam break. Tom cried mostly-silent tears which sank into Harry’s shoulder where Tom had dropped his head, regardless of the strain the position put on his already-aching neck. He cried as the fear, the stress, the _guilt_ of the last two weeks rose inside him like an overwhelming wave. He cried as he realised that he was finally safe again, that he was finally _home_. He cried because he was with Master and he knew the man would protect him, would guide him, would shoulder the burden of his past for him and would only punish him when he actually deserved it. He cried because the pain, the humiliation, the _degradation_ was over.

And through all the time he cried, his master didn’t say a word; he just let Tom work through his emotions while stroking his back soothingly. It didn’t matter that every touch sent sparks of pain through Tom, running over his whip welts as they did, it just mattered that Harry was touching him. When his emotional storm abated, Tom sniffing a final few tears into Harry’s shirt, his master gently directed him to his seat at the table and then turned away.

Tom realised there was a pot merrily bubbling on the stove which Harry was tending to and a flicker of guilt passed through him again – _he_ should be the one making the food. That, after all, was one of his main duties to his master. Not to mention how he’d been so…needy; crying into Master’s shirt the way he had. It was a miracle that Master hadn’t just pushed him away in disgust. Suddenly feeling uncomfortable in the chair, the last two weeks proving to him how inappropriate it was, he slipped to the floor to kneel beside his master’s chair, his eyes on the ground.

“I don’t even know if you like tomato soup, but you bought it so-“ Master’s voice cut off abruptly. “Tom, why are you on the floor?”

“It’s my place, master,” Tom murmured in response. “I know you have been very kind to me, how kind has been brought…painfully, to my attention. I know I’ve been a bad slave for you – I will be better, I promise,” he vowed, meaning it with all his heart.

“What? Tom…?” His master’s voice trailed away for a moment, and then he sighed and walked closer. There was the sound of bowls being placed on the table and Tom waited patiently, knowing that Master might deny him food, especially after his loathsome display earlier. “Tom,” Master’s voice said with a hint of steel in it.

“Yes, master?” he responded, trying to make it clear through his tone that he would be entirely submissive to his master’s wishes.

“Who exactly decides the rules here? Me, you, or someone else?” Tom frowned at the ground. Was this a trick question?

“You, master,” he answered, hoping that it was correct.

“So if I say that I want you sitting in a chair, eating your soup, what would you do?” There was only one answer to that question, and Tom could feel confusion warring with a sense of relief that broke through the bubble of submission that he had wrapped around himself.

“I would obey,” he answered, his words losing the muffled quality they had had in his own ears.

“Then here are my orders: I want you sitting in your chair, eating your soup once it’s cool enough to do so without burning yourself. I want you to drink if you are thirsty, and if you would like more soup, I want you to get it for yourself. Do you understand?” Tom looked up, meeting Harry’s gaze for the first time since entering the room, feeling like he had finally surfaced from swimming in a lake.

“Yes, master,” he breathed, gratitude and relief filling him and making him feel almost light-headed. Getting up, he slid back into his chair and stared at the plate of food. Finally, something that wasn’t that tasteless gunk he had been subjected to for the few times he’d actually been allowed to eat. Lifting the spoon – a _spoon_! – he dipped it in, lifted it, blew on it until the steam coming off it had abated a little, and then slipped it into his mouth.

He almost moaned at the flavour that immediately made his mouth salivate. Dipping his spoon back in, he repeated the process again, and again, and again, until he was scraping the bottom of the bowl, tempted to just pick the whole thing up and lick it out. The only thing that stopped him was catching sight of his master’s expression. Harry looked…concerned, his own spoon hanging halfway to his lips, forgotten. Flicking his eyes away, Tom felt a feeling of embarrassment rise in him at the display he’d made. Clearing his throat, he tried to inject a bit of jocularity to ease the tension of the moment.

“I did say I was hungry,” he commented, but could tell that the humour he had tried to inject hadn’t quite made it into the words and they just sounded defensive instead.

“I can see that,” Harry replied, a note of empathy mixing with the concern. “Tom…how many times do you think you ate while with Richards?” Tom counted it, though wasn’t sure about the most recent times.

“Perhaps six times?” he replied, a hint of a question in his response. “Maybe five. Maybe seven. Some of it…isn’t very clear.”

“ _Six_ times in sixteen _days_?” Harry asked, incredulously. Tom just ducked his head a bit, not sure whether Harry disbelieved what he’d said. “And what did you eat?” Tom shrugged.

“Some sort of grey slop,” he replied. “From a conversation Richards had with his house elf, it was some formula developed for slaves to be both nutritious and unpleasant.” At that Harry snorted, though he didn’t sound as though he was amused.

“I bet,” he commented quietly. “ _Merlin_ , I want to go and tear Richards a new one!” Tom looked up at his master, alarmed.

“Master, please don’t!” he pleaded, images spiralling through his mind of his master attacking Richards and getting into trouble. The following consequences where Tom was once again at the mercy of some other master were a factor in his alarm, but not its entirety, not by half. Harry met his eyes, slight remorse showing in his gaze.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to do it, no matter how I feel,” he reassured his slave. “Unless he crossed a line – something that we could get him on with the new regulation, that is. Did he?” Tom thought about it, running through his memory of the time in the man’s ‘care’ compared with his knowledge of the regulation. Then, shaking his head, he met his master’s gaze again.

“No. He stayed within limits,” he responded. Harry nodded thoughtfully.

“Tom…” he started, and then hesitated before continuing. “Look, this isn’t an order – if you don’t want to tell me, then I’ll accept that. But I can’t help imagining…horrible situations. I’d like to know…to know what happened to you while I was unconscious. Will you tell me?” he asked, a note of pleading in his own voice. It was so unusual that Tom had to stare at his master – he didn’t think he’d ever heard Harry plead, not even when, in his former persona, he had tortured the boy-turned-man. He thought about the request, knowing that it truly was one. Frankly, he’d rather forget all about Richards…but when he thought about the torment he’d put himself through because he hadn’t known what was happening to Harry, because he had had no idea whether he’d ever see the man again…he couldn’t inflict that on the master he loved.

“I…he…” Actually starting was harder than Tom had thought, especially with Harry’s eyes on him. In the end, he closed his eyes, summoned up his courage and just let the words flow. “As he said, he was the master you should have been.” He heard Harry draw in a quick breath and held up a hand. “Please,” he said, a note of begging in his own voice. “Please let me finish.” There was a pause and then Harry let out the breath as a sigh.

“Alright,” his master said, slightly grudgingly. Tom nodded his head, still keeping his eyes shut.

“As I said, he was the master you should have been. For what I did in the war…for what I did to _you_ ….I killed your parents. My followers killed your godfather and the last of your father’s friends. They tortured your other godmother until she ended up in St Mungo’s permanently. I hunted you. I _tortured_ you. I caused you to be given to abusive muggles, ruining your childhood, and then proceeded to ruin your teenage years. _I did all that_.

“And what did you do? With your power over me, you could have made my life a hell. You _should_ have made my life a living hell, like I had done to you. You should have treated me like Richards. He made me kneel at his feet every moment of the waking day, a heavy leash keeping my head bowed, and at night he chained me to the wall of his bedroom to lie on bare boards with no pillow, no blanket, because he didn’t trust me with any sort of agency without his supervision. If I disrupted his sleep, he made his displeasure…known. He denied my most basic needs, making me beg for food, for water, to relieve myself… And he only granted those when he felt I had obeyed him enough. He made just surviving a humiliating and painful experience for me.

“And then he punished me for my crimes. He used a variety of means, both magical and physical, to express his displeasure at what I had done, the colleagues I had affected… What he had suffered at my hands, at the hands of my Death Eaters had been _nothing_ in comparison to what I did to you…yet his general treatment was worse than _anything_ you ever did to me.” Tom finally opened his eyes and looked at Harry’s face, at his wooden expression and the pain in his eyes. Hating himself for putting that hurt there, Tom slid off his chair once more, moving to kneel at his master’s feet, and, with a moment of hesitation, daring to take Master’s hand between his own. “And I realised…I realised how much I had taken for granted, how _ungrateful_ I had been. Because now, I know what I _should_ have experienced, and more than ever, I realise how lucky I am to have a master like you.

“And I swear,” he said, staring Harry in the eyes so that his master knew how sincere he was. “I will be a good slave for you from now on. No more fighting, no more defiance. I am yours, body and soul. _Willingly._ ” At that, Harry wrenched his hand away, stood up suddenly, and started pacing, like the lion that symbolised his house.

“How can you say that?” he asked finally, turning on his heel and stopping abruptly before Tom, his face red and his expression twisted. Tom flinched very slightly at the sudden movement, but it was just his surface reaction – inside he was calm in a way that he hadn’t been for weeks. If his master wanted to hurt him, he would accept it, because if any man deserved to do so, this one in front of him did. He deserved it because of Tom’s actions, and he deserved it because of his own. He had done something no one else had ever done – he had earned Tom’s trust. “How can you just…give up? I understand that your experience with Richards was _horrible_ , and if I couldn’t visualise the consequences so clearly, I’d be in the Ministry right now, beating him to a pulp, but don’t let that destroy you!”

Tom frowned – it sounded like they were talking at cross-purposes here.

“Master…” he said slowly. “I haven’t given up.” Harry snorted.

“It sure sounds like it.” Throwing himself back into his chair, he ran his hands through his own hair and then sighed. “Look, Tom,” he started, and Tom could tell from his tone that he was trying to convince himself of something. “You’re tired, you’re probably still in pain,” a flash of guilt passed over his face, but he continued “and you’ve just gone through a hell of an experience. It’s only natural that you’d be…” he hesitated, “overly grateful to me, the person who offers you something marginally better than what you experienced at the hands of Richards. You’ll probably feel different in the morning, or in a week, or whenever I do something you don’t like.” He sighed again before continuing in a tone so quiet that Tom barely heard it. “I want your willing submission, but not like _this_.”

Ah, Tom thought. He shouldn’t really be surprised. Harry was no doubt thinking of his own experiences – he had let enough hints drop at quiet moments that Tom had been able to put the pieces together. He had grown up with abusive relatives, and had clung to the people who had ‘rescued’ him from them, taking their enemies as his and fighting fiercely for them. Only to realise, later down the line, that those he had clung to as rescuers, had in fact had a hand in the reason he had been with his abusers in the first place.

No wonder he was drawing parallels, and rejected the idea that Tom might be reacting to being withdrawn from his own abusive situation by clinging on to Harry and offering him what he knew his master wanted. It wasn’t true – while there were parallels, they were not the same situation. Harry hadn’t intended him to be with Richards – Tom had taken in enough of the conversation with the Minister to know that much. In fact, the knowledge that his master had taken the _Minister_ to task over his decision, fighting _for_ Tom…that warmed him as much as his defence before the Ministry inquiry panel had. Plus, what had happened with Richards was more of a crystallisation of what Tom had started to realise before the situation occurred, rather than a new realisation. But he was aware enough of his master to know that Harry wasn’t ready to _hear_ that. Not yet.

And honestly, he was right. The nap earlier had done wonders for Tom, but it couldn’t make up for the acute sleep deprivation he’d been subjected to over the last period; not to mention all the psychological strain he recognised in himself from the guilt, the fear and the stress. Plus, since he hadn’t been in a fit state to access his Occlumency in the last couple of days, he had a feeling that some things weren’t quite right there – his fading in and out of a more submissive mind-set without his intention was a worrying sign.

Tom didn’t think he would change his mind, but he recognised that for both of their benefits, he shouldn’t push this any further. 

“Alright, master,” he said finally, bowing his head in submission to his master’s needs. “I’ll hold my tongue for now.” Looking up, he spotted Harry eyeing him cautiously, but evidently his master decided not to push it too.

“Good,” Harry said finally. “Now, are you in pain?” Tom nodded.

“Yes master.” The question bringing his various aches and pains to the forefront, he rolled his shoulders and winced as the motion pulled at the muscles he’d strained in his back from the hours spent in an uncomfortable position, as well as at the healing welts he’d earned a few days earlier for, once again ‘making Richards wait’. Not that the man’s lateness was actually anything to do with Tom – all he’d done was been unable to stand until he’d been given some food and water. Unfortunately, even after he’d got that, they’d had to wait for some time for him to actually gain any sort of energy. Of course, the Auror had taken it out on his back when they’d returned that night.

“What kind of injuries do you have? I remember you mentioned bruises? A cracked rib? Welts?” Harry winced empathetically at the last. Tom nodded.

“Plus some strained muscles.” He winced a little as he moved his head. “And my neck _really_ hurts from him yanking me around by it all the time.” Harry nodded, his eyes looking murderous. Then, a sick look coming on his face, he hesitated a moment before proceeding with his question.

“Tom…when he said that he didn’t force you to…to come to his bed…was he telling the truth? Did he…did he a-assault you? Sexually?” He looked green at the thought. Tom looked down, memories of that night his fears had very nearly come true running through his mind.

“He didn’t sexually assault me,” Tom told his master tonelessly. Harry let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank Merlin.” His relief was abruptly turned back to concern when Tom hissed, his collar punishing him for only telling a half truth. “Tom?” Harry’s tone was one of warning, and he reached out to tilt Tom’s chin up so he could stare directly into his slave’s gaze. Tom was sure that the shame he felt was written clearly on his expression.

“I…he didn’t sexually assault me,” Tom repeated, and then hesitated. “But he did _try_.”

“Bastard!” Harry hissed, baring his teeth, his gaze even more murderous than before. Tom wondered if he should hold on to his master, stop him from going out and committing a serious crime.

“It’s OK,” Tom said hurriedly. “He didn’t succeed. And even if he had, it wouldn’t have _meant_ anything.” His attention back on his slave, Harry stared down at Tom with hooded eyes.

“Explain,” he demanded. Tom took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before answering – he’d told Harry about the humiliation the man had imposed on him; why was this any different?

“He was drunk, and aroused. He wanted me to suck his dick,” Tom said baldly, not seeing any point in sugar-coating it: he didn’t need it, and he doubted Harry would appreciate it. “When I refused to obey his words, he tried to force me physically, but I fought him long enough for him to lose interest. He came on my cheek and then…fell asleep. He didn’t try again. Honestly, I don’t think he remembered it the next morning.”

“Merlin, Tom,” Harry said, horror in his voice. Tom just shrugged. It had happened, and he still had nightmares about it, but that was all. It was done. He didn’t know why it had to be a big deal to anyone. “I hate knowing that you had any part of that bastard on you,” he continued, a note in his voice that made Tom want to smile – possession.

He imagined Harry using his own come to mark his territory and found a wave of arousal go through him at the thought. He imagined Harry rubbing it into his cheek, so Tom couldn’t escape his scent, the knowledge that he was possessed. With a warmth centred in his groin, Tom realised he was hardening at the very thought. Still, that wasn’t appropriate for now, so he redirected his mind away from his erotic musings.

“I got my own back,” he offered in the end, a smirk coming to his lips as he remembered that. Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh? How?” So Tom told him, gleefully recounting how he had first used the man’s shirt to wipe away the disgusting substance and then how the man had, in his drunken stupor forgotten to chain him up and he had messed around with Richards’ documents and laid a trap for him the next morning. When he finished, he had a sudden pang of apprehension – what if his master didn’t appreciate how his slave had been defiant, even with someone like Richards. When Harry broke out in a grin, dark satisfaction clear in his eyes, Tom’s heart-rate calmed.

“Well done, Tom,” he said, shaking his head admiringly. “I’m glad to know that he couldn’t completely cow you, despite having all the advantages.” Tom thought about responding to that, reassuring his master that he would never have to worry about such things because his slave was loyal to him, and him alone, but decided against it. Not yet. That could come later.

“You know,” Tom said musingly, “I did find an interesting fact about Richards. Something you might be able to use against him, if you chose.”

“What’s that, then?” Harry asked, curious.

“From a letter on his desk, it looks like he’s thoroughly in debt to a brothel.” Harry frowned.

“That’s interesting, sure, in a rather disgusting way, but how could it be used against him? Prostitution is legal in the Wizarding world, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what I’ve learnt from research for my classes, anyway.”

“Prostitution is. _Underage_ prostitution _isn’t_.” Harry’s expression went through a range of emotions again, but this time they were slow enough for Tom to identify at least some of them: surprise, anger, disgust, and finally intrigue.

“So how do you think we should use this against him, then?” Harry asked.

“Well,” Tom started, but then shifted because the position was uncomfortable. As he shifted, he pulled at some of his aching back muscles and involuntarily winced.

“Merlin!” Harry interrupted, standing up. “What am I doing? You’re in pain and here we are, yakking about revenge. Come on, I’ll get you some potions.” Harry waited patiently for Tom to get to his feet before going up the stairs. He went into his room and Tom paused by the entrance. Throughout the whole of the time they’d spent together, all eight months of it, Tom had never actually entered or even _seen_ Harry’s room.

It was surprisingly tidy. Tom wasn’t sure why, but he’d always imagined it a bit messy, maybe with clothes strewn about and items cluttering every surface. It wasn’t. The floor was clear of mess and the sides were mostly so. Yes, there were a couple of books on Harry’s bedside table, but otherwise, there were very few things just lying around. He supposed it made sense – Harry didn’t tend to leave things lying around in the rest of the house; why would he suddenly do it in his bedroom?

Tom also noticed the bed. A proper four-poster bed which looked big enough to sleep two, its blankets looked soft and inviting in a rich red with black pillowcases to match. Harry noticed his gaze as he walked back towards the door from where he’d disappeared into the bathroom, potions in his hands that Tom intimately recognised from using on Draco.

“This used to be the master bedroom,” he explained. Tom couldn’t help a grin from curling slightly at the corner of his mouth.

“Why say it ‘used to be’? It still is, isn’t it?” Harry sent him a dirty look, but Tom could tell he wasn’t serious about it from the wry tilt to his lips.

“I suppose it is,” he allowed. Then, the smile sliding off, he looked at Tom seriously, holding the potions out. “I got you some bruise balm, muscle relaxant and a general pain relief. Do you need anything else?” Tom thought about it and then shook his head – his injuries were mostly superficial, he thought. “OK, good,” Harry said, a note of relief in his voice. “I mean, I was able to see that you didn’t have any serious injuries from that spell I used, but…” he trailed off, but Tom thought he knew what his master meant: not serious could cover a whole gamut of hurt. “Here,” Harry told him, holding the potions out to him. Tom took them, but hesitated to turn away and go do it.

“Master,” he started tentatively, looking up to meet Harry’s gaze. “Can you…” he trailed off and restarted, licking his lips in nervousness. “Would you do it?” Harry frowned at him, but Tom felt it was more in confusion than disapproval.

“What do you mean?” Tom held the potions out to him in answer. Harry’s eyebrows shot up and he looked from the potions to Tom’s eyes. “You want me to…?” he asked slowly. Tom nodded. Harry took the potions back almost tentatively. “Alright,” he said quietly, a note in his voice that Tom couldn’t identify. Then his gaze sharpened as it brushed over Tom’s whole body. “Why don’t you go and take a shower first,” he suggested. “If you feel well enough, of course,” he added quickly. “I can imagine you’re itching for one, and once you have this gunk on you, you’ll need to leave it for a while. I bet Richards didn’t let you wash very often,” Harry continued darkly, eyeing Tom’s hair. Tom shrugged.

“He just shot a cleaning charm at me whenever my smell offended him too much,” he said off-handedly, as if it hadn’t been just another source of humiliation to be walking around smelling his own stench, and knowing everyone else could too. Tom had to admit that a hot shower sounded _heavenly_ …after feeling grimy for the last two weeks, and knowing he had traces on his body of dirt, food, tears, blood, and much worse substances, the idea of being able to clean was almost enough to bring him to tears again!

“That would be fantastic,” he replied fervently instead, bowing his head for a moment as a wave of gratitude ran through him. Harry half-smiled at his tone, but there was a sad note in his eyes that Tom hated to see.

“OK, well go do that. Take as much time as you want. Where do you want me to…to treat your injuries? The sitting room? Your room? ...mine?” Tom stared at him for a moment, surprised beyond belief that Harry had actually offered his room – that had always been an area of sanctuary for Harry alone. Tempted to accept, simply out of curiosity, in the end Tom decided against it.

“The sitting room,” he said finally. The sitting room was somewhere he had some very good memories of him and Harry together. In fact, he would say he was actually more comfortable there than in his own room: Harry’s room had always been for Harry, and Tom’s room had always been for him. Actually, thinking about it, Harry had never really entered his room. He’d stood in the doorway, at the most, stepping just inside. But he’d never invaded Tom’s space. Just one more difference between his master and Richards.

Harry accepted his decision and then they shared one more long look before Tom turned away to have that shower.

XXX

Harry waited in the sitting room for Tom to come down, feeling oddly nervous and not quite sure why. Tom had… He shook his head, too many thoughts running around through it. Leaning back in his armchair, Harry stared at the fire and tried to make some sense of it all. It had been…a very long day, he decided with a wry sort of despair.

First he’d got out of the hospital, only to find his slave had been given to an unknown person, someone who had abused him. Then he’d realised how much Kingsley had broken his trust, just one more person to do so, despite him swearing to himself that each time would be the last. Then he’d thought that that damn Richards had broken _Tom_ , despite the short length of time they’d been together. Then he thought that he _hadn’t_ broken Tom, only swing back to his previous opinion not long after. Then he’d realised exactly _how badly_ Richards had treated Tom – and frankly, he didn’t care that Draco had had it worse; he didn’t care that the man had technically stuck within his limits, he _still_ wanted to march up to the Ministry and show the bastard exactly why he couldn’t treat _Tom_ like that! Then Tom had started _crying_ , something he seemed to be doing with alarming regularity – and Harry wasn’t sure if that was a very good sign, or a very bad one. Then he’d started plotting revenge. Then he’d realised that Tom was still _in pain_ while they talked. And then, to top it all off, Tom had actually asked him to treat his injuries! Harry would have thought he’d have wanted to retreat to his room to lick his wounds, but no… And that had all happened in the space of about five hours. It wasn’t even dinner time yet, for Merlin’s sake!

Feeling restless, Harry got up and started pacing, letting his mind go over his thoughts. Breathing through the feelings of stress that rose within him, he tried to take things one at a time.

First, Richards. Harry would _most certainly_ not be leaving this to lie. He doubted he’d be able to get the man through the legal system – as much as the campaign group was trying to change things, the situation at the moment would probably give the man a slap on the wrist for superficially damaging another man’s property – at best. More likely, he would just get off scott-free. He’d already decided that rushing off and being a Gryffindor about it – challenging him to a duel – would probably satisfy his desire for revenge, but would cause too many complications in other areas to be worth it. However, the idea that Tom had raised…if the man was truly involved in an _underage prostitution brothel_ , there was opportunity for comprehensive revenge there. Besides, even had the man not hurt Tom, Harry would seek to bring _anyone_ who thought he could abuse minors to justice. If they played it right, he might even be able to give the credit to Tom, paint his actions as a man who had discovered something disturbing and had told his master as quickly as possible so as to earn those victims justice. Hmm… It was worth some thought and he made a mental note.

For all that the thought of bringing Richards to justice appealed, he honestly wasn’t sure whether he wanted to become an Auror anymore. Not after everything he had just learnt about how, clearly, no one had objected to the way Tom was being treated; not after Richards was considered one of the best options out of the Aurors by Kingsley. His draw to the Aurors had been that of justice, of fighting for what was right, of defending the vulnerable and catching those who would prey upon them. Kingsley had always described his job as more than that – as a vocation.

And that brought him to the second major concern in his mind – Kingsley. Had he misjudged the man? Kingsley had already surprised him unpleasantly once before with his ruthless use of the slaves as pawns to gain advantage in the political field. This time, he’d gone too far – he’d left someone Harry cared for in an abusive situation when he was already vulnerable. He clearly hadn’t checked on Tom, or if he had, he hadn’t disapproved of the treatment. His actions had _hurt_ , simply because Harry had trusted him to keep his best interests in mind, rather than his own political interests.

Then again…had Kingsley realised how much Harry cared for Tom? It wasn’t like they’d been in the same room for more than a few minutes since that disaster of a dinner party, after all – the rest of the times Harry had met with Kingsley had been in the Ministry, without Tom, or at the ball where they’d both been wearing masks. But even so, as he had told the man, it wasn’t so much about whether he had become attached to Tom or not – it was about Kingsley knowingly going against Harry’s expressed wishes. And, regardless of how much he might have felt it was justified to do so, it did leave Harry very distrustful of him and his motivations.

Harry decided to withhold judgement for now – he would need to go through the various changes Kingsley had been proposing so far with a fine-tooth comb. That way, he could see if the man was still worth supporting as Minister, now he had damaged Harry’s trust in him as a friend.

Now, Tom. Harry sighed, pausing to lean against the mantelpiece and stare at the flames again. This was a big one. The man was so…confusing! One moment completely submissive, if not traumatised, and the next joking with him as if the whole experience had never happened. Breaking down over what had happened to him and then saying that Harry should have been doing it from the start! Vowing himself to Harry body and soul, for Merlin’s sake! Was the man insane?

Pushing away from the mantelpiece violently, Harry restarted his pacing, faster and more furiously than before.

He had been longing to hear those words, he realised with a sudden flash of insight. Had wanted Tom to swear himself to Harry, but willingly. To hear them in that moment, in that context…it had been painful. How could Tom be thinking clearly? Still sleep deprived, just out of an abusive situation, having just been given basic necessities which he had been denied for the last two weeks…? He couldn’t! Sure, Harry didn’t doubt that in the moment, he had meant them. Maybe he’d even continue to mean them for a few more hours, maybe days, but eventually when the fear and pain of the last two weeks faded away, he would regret them. He would wish to take them back. And that…that Harry wouldn’t be able to stand. To have been offered Tom’s willing submission and then have it denied… No. Better not to believe it in the first place.

Sure, he knew that Tom had been finding some peace in his situation, although whether that could continue now that he knew he was to be permanently a slave, was to be seen. That was another consideration – Tom had barely begun to process that his would never be free; that he would be forever Harry’s slave, only to be thrown into the ‘care’ of a sadistic bastard which contrasted considerably unfavourably with Harry. He had been in a vulnerable state of mind – if Harry took his words at face value now, he’d be doing both of them a disservice.

No. Even if it meant that Tom _never_ offered Harry his willing submission, his complete trust, his loyalty… Harry would rather that than forever wondering if the only reason he was doing that was because at a vulnerable moment, Tom had latched onto him like a drowning man clutching at straws; that Tom had chosen to give him what he wanted just so he could be safe.

But…did that mean Harry couldn’t enjoy it when Tom wanted to be close to him? Surely allowing him to sleep with Harry on the couch wasn’t bad? Surely agreeing to treat the man’s wounds was OK? Yes, the beast in his chest which had roared at the knowledge that that bastard Richards had tried to…had tried to _force_ Tom, had purred in satisfaction at the pleading in Tom’s eyes as he had held out the potions, but that wasn’t _bad_ was it? He could allow himself that, couldn’t he?

It was as he swung back to pace in the other direction that he saw his slave lingering by the doorway, his eyes uncertain as he watched his master. Harry came to an abrupt stop and then moved back towards the armchair and the potions he had left to one side of them.

“Feeling any better?” Harry asked, almost cursing himself as the words came out. What a starter! Tom didn’t seem to notice his self-recriminations, his head lowered and his fingers trembling slightly, Harry saw in concern.

“Yes, master,” he murmured in agreement.

“Hey,” Harry said a moment later, his tone softer than the forced jocularity of earlier. “I don’t have to do this. I mean, you can do it for yourself if you’d prefer?” he quickly clarified, not wanting Tom to think he was denying access to the potions or something. He saw a flash of red eyes as Tom quickly looked up and away.

“Master…I would like you to do it, if you don’t mind,” he replied hesitantly. Harry hated to hear that note in his voice – Tom and hesitance didn’t generally go together.

“Of course,” Harry replied warmly, trying to express how he was more concerned about Tom’s feelings than anything else. Because actually, the idea of having that silky skin under his fingers…well, it had featured more than a few times in his dreams, and that was so inappropriate for this moment that he shoved the thought away as quickly as possible for fear that Tom might be able to somehow read it on his face. The man didn’t need something like that after what had happened with Richards, for Merlin’s sake! “Come on, then. How do you want to do this? Sitting? Standing?

In response, Tom just walked over, his motions having more confidence in them than his words, and knelt fluidly in front of Harry. Alright then. Harry followed him down to the floor and saw him unbuttoning his shirt. Unable to help himself from licking his lips and desperately thinking of unsexy things to prevent himself from showing unfortunate evidence of exactly what being near a half-naked Tom Riddle did to him, Harry reached for the potions bottles.

Looking back, he sucked in a shocked breath, the horror at what he saw before him banishing all traces of arousal. Tom’s chest and stomach were both thoroughly covered with bruises in a variety of colours, the range between deepest, darkest purple to yellow telling more clearly than anything else exactly what Tom had been suffering through.

“Merlin,” Harry breathed. He supposed that Draco had looked similar, but it hadn’t had the same horrifying effect on Harry at the time. In a small part of his brain, he wondered why that was. The rest of him was more concerned with fumbling with the bruise balm and trying not to hurt Tom as he applied the cream with fingers that he realised were shaking. He couldn’t even enjoy touching Tom’s skin, the anger rising inside him like a bubble of boiling lava.

It got even worse when he’d finished the bruises on the front and shuffled around to Tom’s back. Not only were there bruises, but as Tom had said earlier, there were _welts_ from a _whip_. When he first saw them, Harry had actually had to put the potions bottles down and clench his fists, closing his eyes, concentrating on his magic not _going out of control_. When the chairs had stopped shaking around him, he relaxed a bit, meeting Tom’s slightly alarmed gaze where the man had twisted his head around.

“I’m OK,” he promised, ruefully. “It’s just…” he sighed. “If I could murder Richards and get away with it, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t, so I won’t. Doesn’t stop me from being angry.” An understanding look entered those red eyes along with a slightly vindictive smirk on those kissable lips.

“Don’t worry, master. We’ll get him, one way or another.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, suspecting that the look in his own eyes matched the dark satisfaction he saw in Tom’s. Turning back to his task, he winced anew as he saw the damage. “Tom, I think some of these are going to scar,” he said with consternation. “Especially this one,” he told the man, tracing one that was mostly healed which ran almost horizontally from Tom’s spine around his side. “I can get some scar-removing cream, if you want,” he offered, disliking the thought of Richards having left a mark on _his_ Tom. The slave tilted his head consideringly for a moment, and then shook it slightly.

“I don’t think that will work – he used _flagello_ , I think.” Harry frowned.

“That’s dark magic!” he objected, understanding Tom’s words – dark magic never responded as well to healing magic as wounds caused by other things. “Can’t we get him on that?”

“Master,” Tom said in a surprisingly acerbic tone of voice. “Richards was able to use the _Cruciatus Curse_ on me without worrying about consequences because I am legally classed as an object, not even a sentient being.”

“He _what_?” Harry asked, his own voice dangerously quiet, volcanic rage rising in him once again, the fire near them starting to flare as his magic fed it in order to not explode out of him. Tom turned, sighing, his expression and eyes suddenly looking very tired.

“Can we just accept that he did lots of things that you wouldn’t do, and move past that?” Tom asked, begged him. Harry felt suddenly ashamed, the anger dying down almost as quickly as it had bubbled up. Because honestly? He understood what it was like to go through something and not really want to talk about it afterwards, especially when nothing could come of it. He’d already pushed Tom a lot on what had happened to him – did he really need to push more?

“Alright,” Harry replied, reluctantly, but understanding. “Turn around again then,” he ordered when Tom stayed in place looking at him. “I’m not finished your back.” Tom obeyed without a word and Harry continued rubbing the various creams in without any more discussion.

When he started with the muscle-relaxer – apparently it was OK to combine a bruise balm and muscle-relaxer – he was surprised to feel a slight vibration under his fingertips. Not long after that, he heard a slight moan coming from Tom.

“Are you OK?” he checked – he didn’t think he was pressing too hard, but…

“Absolutely fine, master,” Tom replied, a hint of breathiness to his voice. Harry blushed as he realised why Tom had moaned – after how tense he had been for the last few days, he wasn’t surprised that his muscles relaxing would feel pleasurable. Harry thought that he should probably finish up as quickly as possible, be professional and brisk about it. But somehow…the fact that he was soothing the man’s pains and replacing it with pleasure? It felt so _good_. He was able to take care of his slave in a very obvious way, give him something he clearly needed, and it felt _awesome_. Almost like flying, with the rush that went to his head.

Then he got to Tom’s neck and was brought abruptly down to earth as he shifted the collar upwards gently and saw the swollen ring of dark purple bruises it had been hiding. Rage once more rising inside him, he slathered bruise balm all over it, placing a sticking charm on the collar so it didn’t slide back down to cover them as soon as he let go. Wanting to go and break something, he first checked with Tom whether everything had been sorted.

“You don’t have any injuries anywhere else?” Tom shook his head.

“Thanks to the position I was always in, my upper body was a much easier target than my lower,” he explained. Harry nodded in acknowledgement, the blandly-spoken statement doing nothing to calm him down.

“Here, then,” he said, passing Tom the general pain potion he’d brought down. Taking back the empty vial when the man had downed it, Harry fixed Tom with a gimlet stare. “Now, you’ve got two hours until dinner. Rest. You can do it down here or in your room, as you want, but try to sleep: you’ve still got purple bags under your eyes.”

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged, shrugging his shirt back on and shifting around so they were face to face. As much as Harry liked the idea of a half-naked (or fully naked) Tom Riddle, frankly seeing those injuries on him was making him feel a bit sick. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I’m going to massacre our garden,” Harry replied grimly. Tom got a faintly horrified look on his face.

“Not Albert, please master,” he begged semi-seriously. Harry frowned at him in confusion.

“Who’s Albert?” Tom’s cheeks got a faintest dusting of pink – a look that Harry, despite himself, found absolutely _adorable_. He muttered something. “What was that? Speak up,” Harry asked, starting to feel a hint of amusement that cut through his rage like soap cut through grease.

“My pet Devil’s Snare,” Tom repeated a little louder, but still avoiding Harry’s eyes.

“Hah!” Harry said triumphantly, pointing a finger at Tom. “I knew it – you’re helping those plants just as much as you’re trying to destroy them.” When Tom got a guilty look on his face, Harry had his verification. Sighing – because didn’t that just take the joy out of massacring plants? – Harry changed his mind. “Alright, I’ll leave your pet monsters alone. I’ll just conjure some things and destroy them in the duelling room, I suppose.”

“We could duel together,” Tom offered, but even Harry could tell that his suggestion lacked enthusiasm. Besides, even if he’d actually _wanted_ to do it…

“No,” Harry told him firmly. “You’re injured; you need to rest. And don’t think of making dinner either – I’ll do that today. We can continue as normal from tomorrow, but today…” he sighed again. “Today has been a…trial. For both of us.” Then, remembering something, he reached into his pocket and brought out Tom’s wand. “Here.” Tom took it tentatively, lifting his eyes to meet Harry’s.

“Thank you, master.” Then, seeming to hesitate for a moment, he continued. “But…I can’t use it.”

“What?” Harry replied with confusion.

“The Minister…he realised that you had allowed me to use magic. I told him you’d allowed me to use it only for the garden, and kept my wand in a warded area at all other times,” Harry was glad that his guesses had been so accurate, “so he forbade me from using any magic at any time.” Harry knew his expression must be darkening at the reminder of Kingsley, but he was glad that Tom seemed to recognise it wasn’t directed at him.

“Alright, then I am telling you, and the collar, that your rules are officially back to what they were on Wednesday morning before I left the house. That means you can eat and drink whenever you want, that you can use magic in the house and that you can use furniture. OK?” There was a warmth in Tom’s eyes as he met Harry’s gaze.

“Thank you, master,” he repeated, his tone unsurprised, but grateful nonetheless. Harry nodded sharply in response and then stood up.

“I guess you’d better keep the potions for now, because those bruises probably will need a couple more applications.” Then, without further words, he took himself out of the room, wanting desperately to smash a few conjured plates. A duel would honestly be better, but as he’d said to Tom, no way with the man like that. Still, the sound of his moan of pleasure as Harry had massaged the tension out of his back…he found himself wishing that Tom would want him to do that again.

XXX

It wasn’t a bad idea to rest, Tom thought, though the knowledge that his master was planning to cook for them made him feel uncomfortable. He appreciated Harry’s thoughtfulness, no doubt about that, it was just…while he’d started off with disliking cleaning and cooking because they had been examples of the menial position Harry was trying to force him into, now, they had become the actions he could do for his master. Not cleaning – he still didn’t really see the point of cleaning something when it was dirty again five minutes later, but cooking?

Both he and Harry appreciated food. Tom hadn’t always been particularly good at making sure he ate on a regular basis, not as Voldemort, and not now, and from what he’d seen Harry was the same. But as a result of their upbringings, neither of them liked waste, and both of them appreciated being able to eat whenever they wanted because they’d experienced the opposite. Tom had come to appreciate the pleasure on Harry’s face when he came home from a day tired out by training or learning at Hogwarts, only to find a nice home-cooked meal on the table ready for him. In the last few months, that had become a highlight of Tom’s day, though he had to admit that he hadn’t realised it until his sole purpose had been reduced to an object for Richards to take out his scorn on.

But Harry was right – he did need to rest. Or, more accurately, he needed to investigate his Occlumency shields. Sure, he needed to sleep, but the nap earlier had taken the edge off his exhaustion and a full night’s sleep that night would do wonders, Tom was sure.

Lying back down on the couch which still had traces of Harry’s scent on it, Tom propped his head up on the arm of it and closed his eyes. Sinking into his mind, he felt a wave of annoyance at the mess he saw.

No wonder his thought processes had been a bit out of whack – because of his compromised physical condition, his subconscious had taken control of his mental library. In self-preservation, his mind had reorganised the currents of his thoughts so that the memories which had been brought forwards were all ones which encouraged submission and acceptance, deeming these as most likely to lead to an improvement in his physical condition. Most of them, in fact, were _Draco_ ’s memories, scrolls which had only made their way into his own mind because he’d been caught by them while trying to break Draco’s mental barriers.

Letting his connection to himself as a body go, he merged his consciousness into the currents of wind that blew the scrolls and pieces of parchment of his memories around in complex whirlwinds and interweaving air currents. Without the perceived limitation of his hands, body, and feet, he was at once in the currents of air, as well as in the memories themselves. It wasn’t easy to reach this state – humans in general were too tied to their perceptions of themselves as physical beings – but as a Master of the Mind Arts, though he didn’t have the accreditation to prove it, he was capable of it. The benefit of being able to achieve such a detached and yet attached state was that it was a _lot_ faster to reorganise things.

Once more, Draco’s memories were restricted to a tight spiral on the edge of his conscious mind. Good – they wouldn’t be affecting him or his other memories particularly now. Next came the memories of humiliation and pain at Richards’ hands. Not needing to go through them as he had already done that, he simply sent them into their own flow, in the place where his memories of Voldemort were now – a section which was for recollections of painful events which he didn’t want to have popping into his head every five minutes.

Then, lingering over the memory of Harry’s gentle hands caressing his skin, smoothing on cream to heal the injuries which Richards had caused…he nudged that one into the growing collection of scrolls which swirled and dived almost joyfully in the main section of his mind.

Feeling much more relaxed, Tom withdrew his consciousness to his physical body, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He felt…relaxed. Like himself once more. He was still tired, but he was no longer thirsty, he was no longer hungry and he no longer hurt. And it was all thanks to his master.

Thinking about the revelations he’d had while with Richards, he wondered whether he still felt the same way, now he was back with his master: whether Harry had been right when he’d said that Tom was reacting based on gratitude for being ‘rescued’ from an abusive situation.

And then he realised…yes he did.

The feelings of loyalty towards Harry? Still there, if not stronger than before. The trust he had felt in his master? Absolutely – every time they interacted, the man proved himself worthy of it over and over again. As for the desire to submit to Master’s leadership, to his guidance, to his direction? Yes.

It was strange. Tom knew that as Voldemort, he would have frothed at the mouth in rage had anyone suggested that he might have a buried desire to submit. Even as the Tom Riddle he had been all those years ago…he would have crushed any schoolmate who had dared to imply that he would rather be the submissive partner rather than the dominant: in fact, he remembered how he _had_ ruined one boy who thought his age and position allowed him to dominate Tom. He’d only been a Fourth year at the time, and the other boy in Seventh, but he had still orchestrated events that had led to the boy having to leave the school in disgrace.

But that he had a desire to submit couldn’t be denied. And Tom didn’t know whether it was because of the collar, or because of his recognition of how his decisions had always got him in trouble, or because he’d had it all along but had never found someone that he could trust with himself…. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Tom had found someone in whom he felt that he could trust himself: body, mind and soul.

And all he knew was that that knowledge released a knot of tension within him that he had never known he held. The knowledge that he could…let go. It was almost a contradiction – he had to control his behaviour perhaps more than ever. For Tom, though, the knowledge that he didn’t have to make the decisions of _how_ he controlled his behaviour…it was immensely freeing. He knew that his master would give him the rules by which he needed to live, and would correct him if he broke them. All Tom had to do was follow his master’s direction and he would be safe.

He wondered whether that was why he had been crying so much recently. For someone who hadn’t cried in over fifty years, three times in the last three weeks was…a lot. But perhaps that was because he finally felt like he had the safety to do so, that he could let go of his emotion, and that he wouldn’t fall because Master was there to catch him.

Feeling settled within himself for the first time in…Tom didn’t know how long, he closed his eyes and let himself rest with a small smile on his face. Master had told him to do so, and thus, he would.

XXX

Dinner went by fairly normally – light conversation peppering the bites of the chilli con carne Harry had cooked. Tom had to admit that he was a good cook, even if he felt strangely disappointed at not being able to do it for his master. He did insist on washing up, though. Honestly, it wasn’t like it was much of a chore these days – with being able to use his wand, the plates and implements were clean and back in their places in less than five minutes.

After that, they read for a bit in the sitting room, but Tom found his attention straying from the book he had, lulled by the flickering fire and the hand stroking through his hair until he was dozing against Harry’s thigh.

“Come on,” Harry told him gently, his voice rousing Tom slightly from his sleepy haze. “Let’s get to bed. No point staying up when we’re both falling asleep here.” Had Master been falling asleep too? Tom hadn’t realised. Still, he followed the nudging docilely, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. Sleep sounded good.

By the time he was in his bed, he was so tired he fell asleep almost as quickly as his head hit the pillow. He wasn’t even aware of Harry closing the door after him, or of the vague noises as he got ready for bed too.

Tom slept deeply, at least for a few hours. In the middle of the night, though, he woke abruptly, fear and anguish running through him like electricity, jolting him awake with a yelp. Cringing back, he waited for the curse to come his way, another disruption to Richards’ sleep enraging the man. It didn’t come and memory filtered back into Tom’s mind as he noted the soft surface, the lack of heavy chain holding him to the wall.

 _If this was home, Master must be fine_ , he thought to himself, but the unease still running through him pushed him out of bed and padding towards the door before he could think. Opening the door quietly, he listened. The house was quiet, the sounds familiar as those that only occurred in the small hours – almost no noise from outside and only the small sounds of a house settling in the cool of several hours pre-dawn. He should go back to bed. But somehow, Tom couldn’t make himself. Instead, he walked down the corridor, heading to Harry’s room.

Pausing outside, he debated whether to knock or not. In the end, he decided not – there was no reason to disturb his master’s rest for his own irrational fears. Instead, he slumped down just next to it, his back to the wall – his injuries already feeling _worlds_ better as they pressed against the hard surface. The feeling of the wards around Harry’s door lulled him to sleep as he was able to finally convince himself that his master was OK, that he was here. A few moments later, he started to doze, even sitting upright as he was.

When the door opened next to him, he almost jumped out of his skin from the shock, staring up at the sleepy-looking Harry who was staring down at him with a _lumos_ at the end of his wand, just as surprised.

“Tom?” Master asked, his voice rough from sleep. “What are you _doing?”_ Tom shrugged a little, embarrassment rising in him. But he pushed it away – hadn’t he been thinking earlier about how he trusted his master with himself? Body, mind, and soul?

“I had a nightmare,” he admitted with difficulty. Whoever could say showing vulnerability was easy had never done it, he decided. “You were…you were gone,” he continued, his throat feeling like it had a lump in it, just at the memory of how the nightmare had made him feel, filling him with fear and grief once more. Looking up at his master, he saw that emerald gaze was full of understanding, not scorn, and the knot in his throat loosening.

“Is that why you came here?” Master murmured. Tom nodded.

“If I could feel your magic…I knew you had to be alive. That you had to be here,” he explained, his words becoming easier.

“You could have knocked,” his master pointed out. Tom hesitated.

“I thought about it,” he admitted. “But I didn’t want to disturb your sleep.” Master crouched down abruptly next to him, and Tom couldn’t help flinching slightly, the memories of how Richards would have reacted to his own sleep being disturbed still too fresh in his mind. The man reached a hand towards his and Tom didn’t move away: whatever his body might say, fresh off a nightmare, he didn’t fear his master, and he wouldn’t reject his master’s touch, not for any reason.

Master cupped his jaw, his thumb stroking over Tom’s cheek. His gaze was as warm as the fire they had sat next to that evening and Tom let himself luxuriate in its gentle heat. In moments like this, he could almost believe he was…cherished: that his master felt more positive emotion towards him than just that felt towards a possession that was fulfilling its purpose.

“Tom, I’d rather you knock on my door than try to spend the night out here in the cold.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Do you think you can sleep in your bed now?”

“Please, master,” Tom pleaded. “Don’t send me away.” Master sighed.

“Alright,” he said finally. Then he looked uncertain. “Where do you think you can sleep, then? I’m not leaving you here all night,” he finished decisively. Tom hesitated, biting his lip. Maybe this was too much to ask.

“May I…stay? In your room?” he clarified, his heart in his mouth. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he promised quickly. “I won’t disturb you. I don’t even have to be close. You can even chain me to the wall if you don’t trust me,” he offered, though knowing how much he trusted his master, he knew it would hurt if the man chose to do that. He would understand, though, and he wouldn’t fight it. Not if it was Master doing it. Looking up, he saw a disturbed look on his master’s face. His heart sinking, he imagined being sent back to his room. If that happened, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep any more that night.

“Merlin, Tom,” Master said in a disturbed tone. “I’m not Richards – I’m not going to _chain you to a wall_ for goodness sake.” Tom lowered his head, feeling guilty that he’d upset his master. He hadn’t intended to suggest that the two had anything to do with each other. Master sighed. “Come on, then. I suppose the bed’s big enough for both of us,” he finished in an undertone. Almost gaping at the implications of his words, Tom stared at him for a moment before quickly scrambling to his feet as Master sent him an annoyed look.

Stepping inside hesitantly, Tom couldn’t resist breathing in the scent of his master and his master’s magic that filled the room with its perfume. He followed Master to the bed, prepared to sleep on the floor next to it, regardless of what he thought he’d understood from the man’s words, but his master just patted the right hand side of the bed.

“Come on, get in,” Master said slightly impatiently. “Let’s get back to sleep, for Merlin’s sake.” With the explicit instruction from his master, Tom obeyed, slipping under the covers. His mind relaxed and he felt a warmth going through him that had nothing to do with the bedcovers. Master hadn’t chained him up against the wall; hadn’t restricted him in any way at all. Despite knowing what Tom had plotted to do to Richards, what he would have done had he been able to get away with it, Master _trusted_ him to be present when he was completely vulnerable.

The evidence that he didn’t just trust his master, but that his master trusted _him_ , despite everything he’d done… It was a powerful feeling. And in that moment, Tom realised something, something that hit him like a lightning bolt: he was in love with his master.

There was no other way of explaining the way he felt – the warmth at Harry’s presence; the longing for his touch; the way he could get lost in his master’s eyes; the desire to be seen as more than a possession, not because of any pride, but because of some deep need for recognition; the way he’d missed all the small things when Harry had been in the hospital; the sheer anguish he’d felt at the thought that Harry could _die_ , that had nothing to do with his own life being connected; the joy he’d felt when he’d seen his master again…. Tom loved Harry. Harry’s slave loved his master. Somehow, in that moment, Tom could reconcile it all. He’d come so close to realising the truth while he’d been with Richards, but it had taken this moment of Harry being vulnerable with him so easily for Tom to slot the final piece in place. Harry might never love him, but Tom knew his own emotions would only deepen. It had taken a lifetime for him to fall in love – it would take a lot longer than that for him to fall out of it again, if he even could.

Once, he knew, he would have rejected his realisation: he’d seen love as a useless emotion which did nothing but create weakness. Now though…Well, there were two considerations he’d been forced to taken into account. One was that he’d seen that love held its own power – the actions of Lily Potter being a case in point. The second was that he was already weak. That he was completely and utterly dependent on his master’s goodwill had been made very clear by Richards; were he to be owned by someone like Richards, there would be very little he could do to change his life. Fortunately for him, he was owned by Harry, someone with a heart of gold and a stubborn desire to do right by those around him that could outlast a donkey. Someone to whom he already owed a great debt, that only seemed to grow rather than diminish. So what was just one more weakness, when his position was nothing _but_ weakness, now? Perhaps he could accept it as well because he knew that his master wouldn’t misuse it, if he ever realised Tom’s feelings for him – Tom trusted him because he had proven himself so many times over already.

And on that thought, surrounded by warmth and by reminders of his master, he slipped easily into sleep again, all night terrors warded off by the presence of the only person Tom had ever truly trusted; the only person he’d ever loved.

XXX

The next morning, Harry woke to find that he was pressed against a warm body. They were both on their sides, Harry spooning the other person from behind. A bit confused – when was the last time he’d woken up with someone? – he opened his eyes. The other person was taller than him – significantly taller since he was staring between their shoulder blades. And he was pretty sure he was male, because Harry’s hand was slung over his hip in a position where he would definitely be feeling boobs if the person was female. Looking up, he realised that he recognised the hair of the person, as well as the collar around his neck. Quickly withdrawing his arm as if burnt, he rolled away, cursing mentally as he realised there was a lump in the boxers he wore to bed which Tom had surely been able to feel, if he was awake.

“Master?” the other man asked sleepily. Well, at least _someone_ knew where they were! What had happened? Harry suddenly froze, hoping to goodness that he hadn’t done anything…untoward. Then memories of their early morning encounter surfaced and he relaxed. No. Tom had had a nightmare and had tripped the ward that Harry automatically applied to his door every night. It wasn’t even because Harry distrusted him anymore, as it had been at the beginning – no, it was just that if Tom got up in the middle of the night, Harry wanted to know about it. And he was glad he had – the thought of the man sleeping outside his door for no reason made something inside Harry ache.

But this couldn’t become a regular event, and he’d have to make that clear to Tom.

“I’m going to…I’m going to get up,” Harry said lamely, figuring that in bed was not the best time to have that conversation.

“Of course, master,” that sleep-roughened voice said. At the sound and the delicious view he had of Tom’s side-profile, his head turned partially towards Harry, he almost couldn’t control the desire to press close once more, to lean over Tom and take those lips with his. He could easily imagine stroking Tom’s chest under the cloth, playing with his nipples until he gasped and then down further still, sliding into the briefs the other man wore – “Master?” Tom’s voice broke him out of his fantasy and he rolled away so violently that he almost fell off the other side of the bed. Catching himself just in time, he stood up, his back to Tom. He was very glad that the bathroom was on _his_ side of the bed, because that meant he could escape to it without Tom spotting the evidence of his arousal.

“I’ve got to…I’m just…” Harry stuttered and then just decided to make his escape. Closing the door behind him, he leant against it for a moment, hitting the back of his head gently against it in consternation. Why, oh why had he offered to let Tom bloody Riddle, the most attractive man on the magic-damned planet, sleep in his bed? Sighing, he knew the reason for that – because he couldn’t resist the vulnerability that Tom had shown in the middle of the night.

What a change from when he had first arrived! Harry distinctly remembered his first night where he had had a nightmare and had gone looking for a light so he could read. Only, when Harry had investigated that time, they’d both snapped at each other until Harry had used _punire_ against him…. This time, he ended up bloody taking Tom to _bed_ with him. Shaking his head in amazement at how the world had changed, Harry sighed and stepped away from the door. Slipping his night clothes off, he stepped into the shower.

**(EEE explicit fantasy EEE)**

Welcoming the spray of warm water against his face, Harry soon found his hand drifting to his half-hard cock. Merlin, he’d forgotten how good it felt to wake up pressed against someone warm. He hadn’t had the opportunity since the war had ended. Or, at least, as he had no doubt that there were hundreds, if not thousands, of Boy-who-Lived or Man-who-Conquered fans who would jump into his bed at the slightest hint of interest, he’d had no opportunities that he’d wanted to take up. He’d only ever been with people who he had feelings for, and didn’t intend to change that.

Instead, he found his own hand much more fulfilling. Stroking himself gently, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation. At first, he just focused on the pleasure stroking his cock engendered, but slowly, he found images running through his mind. He imagined waking up once more to a willing bed-mate, caressing his or her skin, feeling its soft silkiness on his fingers. He imagined a head bobbing in his lap, a clever tongue working with lips to massage his dick. And then the image moved from some generic head and body into clear focus.

Tom knelt in the shower, his hair plastered to his head by the warm stream of water, drops running down his cheeks, down his shoulders, over his back… Harry’s fist on his cock quickened as he imagined weaving his hand in Tom’s hair and pulling his head close. He imagined his slave licking at the head of his cock, paying careful attention to the sensitive glans with his lips, with his tongue. Then Harry tugged him forwards abruptly so half his cock disappeared into Tom’s mouth. He imagined setting a punishing pace, Tom submitting to his direction, not even trying to fight him, his crimson eyes looking up at Harry with that warm spark which had been in them so often of late, trusting his master not to push him too far.

Harry groaned quietly as he felt the tight coil of pleasure in his groin explode sending pleasure through his body and briefly whiting out his thoughts in a moment of pure bliss. He stroked himself slowly through his orgasm, his cock twitching and spurting out streaks of white onto the shower wall. They were quickly washed away by the shower spray, but Harry couldn’t help a final image coming to mind: Tom, his face decorated with his come, washing away the mark that the bastard Auror had attempted to make on _his_ slave.

**(EEE explicit fantasy end EEE)**

Then, with a flash of guilt, he realised what he had done. Apparently, he thought ruefully, needing feelings for his bed-mates didn’t rule out the person he’d shared a bed with so recently. He’d been realising lately that he had a surprising amount of feelings for a man who had once been his worst nightmare and his worst enemy. But he was unattainable – Harry couldn’t be certain that any consent he gave would be truly consensual, not when he had that collar around his neck; not when he was facing a lifetime as Harry’s slave. As tempted as Harry was to just say ‘screw it’ – since Tom _was_ going to be his slave for the rest of their lifetimes – what did it matter if it was consensual because he truly wanted it or consensual because he wanted to please Harry? – his morals prevented him from just taking what he wanted.

Bad enough that Tom seemed to be playing an ever increasing role in Harry’s fantasies, though this one where he’d played the starring role was new, but it would be beyond the pale if he ever let Tom think that he _had_ to submit to Harry sexually for fear of other consequences. Guilt flaring and curdling his after-glow unpleasantly in his stomach, he turned the shower off and stepped out, reaching for a towel. Then, seeing a flaw in his master plan of hiding from Tom, he struck his forehead as he realised that he hadn’t brought any clothes.

Sighing, he wrapped the towel around his waist and exited. Stepping out of the bathroom he stopped suddenly. He hadn’t really thought about what Tom might have been doing while he was showering – and wanking – but he supposed that at best he’d still be in bed; at worst, he’d have started being nosy and poking through Harry’s things. What he was actually doing was neither of these: he was kneeling by the door, his head submissively lowered.

“Uh…” Harry said intelligently. “You could have left the room if you wanted,” he told his slave, confused as to why he hadn’t already.

“You have wards on the door, master,” Tom pointed out. Well, yeah, that was true, but they weren’t particularly _complex_. Heck, they were probably pretty useless now, considering Tom had permission to use his magic now. Still, Harry would rather keep them up than take them down just in case a guest at some point decided to go for a wander.

“…You can use magic,” Harry pointed out. Tom looked up at him, the look in his eyes warm.

“I didn’t know whether you would wish me to remove your spells, or indeed whether you wanted me to leave the room or stay. I erred on the side of caution.” OK, that was a fair point. Actually, Harry _didn’t_ want to give Tom permission to remove his spells: they were always there for a good reason.

“Good point,” he admitted. “Well done for thinking of it,” he praised, surprised at the flash of pleasure that accompanied his words. Since Tom didn’t then grimace, he had to wonder if it _hadn’t_ come from the collar. “I don’t want you removing my spells,” he clarified and then waved his wand at the door. “But you can leave – go get changed. Heck, do you shower in the morning or the evening?” he asked, curious. He’d never actually noticed.

“Both, master,” Tom said with a hint of consternation. “Is that…permissible?” Harry eyed him, though shouldn’t really be surprised. Then he shrugged.

“Sure, why not?” Tom flicked his eyes away for a moment.

“It uses more hot water?” he suggested tentatively. Harry shrugged.

“I don’t pay any water or electricity bills – I figure the plumbing must be magical in some way.” Tom looked back at him, his gaze thoughtful.

“It must be a combination of runes and enchanting,” he mused. “One to produce the water, one to heat it, and one to dispose of it…”

“Yeah, probably,” Harry agreed, getting the basic idea, but not having enough knowledge about either runes or enchanting to disagree or add anything. Tom was silent for a moment, clearly thinking. Harry cleared his throat, looking at him pointedly when he jumped slightly as his attention was drawn back to the real world. Sometimes, Harry thought fondly, he was far too much like Hermione, much as neither of them would like the comparison. “I’d like to get changed,” he pointed out.

“Oh, of course, sorry master,” Tom said, getting to his feet. Opening the door he stepped outside and then paused. “Would you like me to make breakfast for you, master?”

“Sure,” Harry responded, feeling even more bewildered at this strangely amenable Tom. But what harm could letting him make breakfast do?

XXX

Fifteen minutes later, Harry was dressed and in the kitchen. Tom had made an omelette for both of them, but for some reason his master wasn’t enjoying it. Worrying that he’d added some ingredient that Harry didn’t like, Tom decided to ask – he knew his master always preferred him to ask questions instead of worrying, potentially needlessly.

“Master?” There was a hum in response. “Is the food not to your taste?”

“What?” Harry blinked owlishly at him. “Oh, no, the food’s lovely. Thank you,” he said sending Tom a smile which reassured him that his master wasn’t just saying that to be nice. But then, if not the food, what?

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes intent on his master. Harry hesitated and then sighed.

“I’m thinking about the pile of work on my desk,” he admitted. “While you were sleeping yesterday, I wrote letters to Ron and my Auror training mentors for lecture notes and assignments. I’ve got a lot to catch up on and the first NEWT exam is on the 22nd.” He sighed again, sounding stressed, his expression depressed. “Plus…I’m not sure I want to continue with the Auror recruitment process anymore.” Tom was taken aback. He thought Harry had been enjoying the training.

“Master, why…?” he started, not sure how to continue. Harry understood him anyway.

“I can’t see myself being part of an organisation that allows one of its members to bring in a clearly badly treated man, no matter if you’re legally counted as non-sentient, without saying something. Without _doing_ something.” Tom was first surprised, and then surprised that he was surprised. And then, after those two emotions, he felt a wave of warmth going through him at this further evidence of how far Harry would go to defend those he felt worthy of it. On the heels of that was wonder that, after everything he had done, Harry could still feel that way about _him_. Then Tom put his emotions aside and thought about the situation, because as much as he appreciated his master’s principles, there were other considerations to be made.

“Master, have you considered that you might be able to change the system from the inside?” Harry frowned at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. The Minister was right – if you get into the Aurors proper, and stay there for a few years without marring your record too much, the chances of you becoming Head Auror when Robards retires are very high, considering your war record and your general popularity. As Head Auror, you could make a lot of changes to the department. And even in the meantime, think about if you choose to quit the programme – it won’t make any changes to the Aurors currently in place. If you don’t join the Aurors, maybe someone else will, someone who doesn’t have your principles.”

“If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem,” Harry murmured.

“Master?” Tom asked, his turn to frown in confusion.

“Something Neville was saying a while back,” Harry explained. “He was telling me why he had decided to offer help with the anti-abuse campaign. He explained that he’d realised how him and everyone else staying away from the auction and not buying slaves hadn’t actually helped the situation; it had just allowed them to be bought by people who actually _wanted_ slaves, who would abuse them. If I give up on being an Auror, you’re right – I won’t be able to stop something like this from happening again.” He was silent for a few moments more, staring at his plate. Tom waited patiently for him to come out of his thoughts by himself. Finally, he looked up, and Tom was glad to see that the fire had been rekindled in his gaze. “Thank you, Tom. You’ve…you’ve really helped.” Tom ducked his head, pleasure at his master’s praise running through him.

“You’re welcome, master,” he murmured in response. When Harry started eating his breakfast with a lot more enthusiasm, something inside him started purring almost smugly.

XXX

It was getting late, Harry decided, stretching his arms towards the ceiling and groaning as his back cracked. He’d been working for _hours_. He hadn’t even stopped for lunch, though Tom had brought him a plate of sandwiches. And then, later, he’d paused for a short time to reapply the healing pastes to Tom’s injuries. The man had actually brought him the potions, asking him tentatively if he could put them on for him again.

Of course, Harry had accepted. This time, it was a lot more pleasurable for Harry to see his slave half-naked, although that just made the guilt inside him rise once more. Fortunately, Tom’s injuries were well on the road to recovery – the healing potions plus food and rest had done Tom a world of good. The bruises which had been in later stages of healing had already disappeared and the ones which had been deep purple had started entering the green or yellow phases. With another good night of sleep, Tom should be free of bruises completely, though the whip welts would take a bit longer to disappear.

After that, Tom had stuck around for most of the day, bringing a couple of books down from the library to read quietly by Harry’s side. He hadn’t stayed kneeling all the time – sometimes half-kneeling, half sitting; sometimes cross-legged; and sometimes lying on the rug near the fire. But the fact that he had actually stayed in the same room for practically the whole day…it was unusual.

Harry had taken advantage of his presence, peppering him with a number of questions which he had always seemed happy to answer, despite it distracting him from his studies. Harry had even tested it, asking a question every time Tom went back to reading, but he hadn’t actually shown any annoyance. And actually, with his help, Harry had made much faster progress than he might have otherwise. He’d said as much and the flash of pleasure on his expression had been just another question raised in Harry’s mind.

Frankly, Harry was mystified, and not sure if he should be worried or not. It wasn’t to say he _disliked_ the new Tom, not at all. In fact, the thought that this helpful Tom, who anticipated his needs and kept him company, was so much what Harry wanted actually increased his suspicions that this was a trick, or a manipulation or something. He had been wondering whether this was still the fallout of Tom’s experiences with Richards, but…he seemed so _content_. Whenever they met eyes, there was a peace, a softness to Tom’s gaze which Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen. Not properly: there had been hints of it previously, but like this? No.

In the end, Harry decided to adopt a ‘wait and see’ approach. If it seemed to cause Tom problems at any point, he’d decide what to do about it then. In the meantime, Tom was starting to doze again, this time lying on the rug in front of the fire. It wasn’t surprising – after the sleep deprivation Richards had put him through, Harry suspected that it would take a good few nights for him to overcome that sleep debt.

“Come on, Tom,” Harry said, his voice rousing his slave. “Time for bed.” Tom yawned widely and stretched like a cat before standing up. He collected his books and put them neatly on one of the tables. Noting the action, Harry wondered if that meant he was planning on repeating his behaviour the next day.

Heading upstairs, Harry mentally crossed his fingers, hoping that Tom wouldn’t ask to sleep with him again. It wasn’t that Harry hadn’t _liked_ sleeping with Tom; in fact, it was because he had liked sleeping with him that he was hoping not to be asked about it. He knew that if Tom asked to spend the night in his bed again, he would be terribly tempted to agree, and that might not be what was best for Tom.

Fortunately, after a longing glance towards Harry’s door, Tom just said goodnight and then disappeared into his room. Applying the normal alert charm, Harry did the same. After cleaning his teeth and switching clothes, he slid into bed. It was strange how empty it felt now that he’d actually had someone in it. The bed hadn’t felt too big before, but now it really did, and the room was too quiet. Harry hadn’t realised how much he had missed the sounds of someone else breathing until he’d had the contrast. He supposed it made sense – at Hogwarts and in the tent, when he was with his friends, he had always slept with other people in the room. It was only at the Dursleys where he had been alone, locked in his cupboard or in his room. Sighing, he flicked his wand to turn off the light and then settled down. One night surely couldn’t make _that_ much difference, could it?

Waking up with the alarm once more, after he had tossed and turned for a good while before falling asleep, was not pleasant, but despite that, he couldn’t help a rush of hope. Sliding out of bed, he walked quickly to the door and opened it. Sure enough, Tom was once again sitting outside his door, his eyes full of hope and longing.

“Master,” he murmured, the same emotions clear in them. “May I join you again?” Harry really shouldn’t allow it, but…in the middle of the night, his self-discipline was at a particularly low ebb, so in answer, he just stepped back and indicated the bed with his head.

“Come on, then,” he replied, hearing an eagerness in his voice which he internally winced at. A grateful expression flashed across Tom’s face and he scrambled to his feet, moving into the room without hesitation this time, though he did pause before getting into the bed, flicking a glance at Harry. “Of course I meant the bed,” Harry said, a note of exasperation in his voice. “I promise, unless you start kicking me, I won’t make you sleep on the floor,” he joked.

“I’ll do my best,” Tom promised, a hint of humour in his eyes and a curl at the corners of his lips.

“See that you do,” Harry replied, yawning. Sliding back into bed, he flicked his wand again, plunging the room back into darkness. This time, sleep came much more easily.

XXX

“Master?” Tom’s voice made Harry lift his head from where it was buried in his notes. He wasn’t actually going to _do_ any of the Hogwarts assignments he’d missed – no point considering that they’d already been marked and returned – but Ron had sent him a copy of his own assignment along with the marking, and Harry was trying to figure out why the professor had made certain comments.

“Yes?” Harry asked, leaning back, not all that displeased by being interrupted. He was making progress, that was for sure, and faster than he probably would have at the beginning of everything, but it was still work, and too much of it besides. Tom walked towards him and knelt at his feet. His eyes stayed on the floor for a moment.

“My bruises are gone and the welts are healing, but…” he hesitated and then offered up a potion to Harry – the muscle-relaxer. “Would you mind putting this on me?” he asked, looking at Harry with hopeful eyes. As if Harry could say ‘no’, even without the eyes which were reminding him strangely of a puppy? The chance to stroke his fingers over Tom’s smooth skin? To hear his breathy moans as Harry teased out the tension in his muscles? To feel the physical submission of his body under his hands? Harry was a weak man, he’d decided, especially when it came to this little demon.

Sure, he knew that Tom’s demeanour was probably mostly manipulation, but when it was for something like this, he’d allow the man his illusions of getting his own way: like that, he wouldn’t know just how much Harry desired the same. How much Harry had mourned the fact that the end of the necessity for bruise balm also meant the end of these sessions. Sure, he knew he could just order Tom to take off his shirt at any time, and give him a massage, but Harry wouldn’t do that because it would undermine Tom’s ability to give consent, which was already dubious. But if Tom was coming and asking for it…surely it wasn’t bad to give him what he clearly wanted?

“Alright,” Harry agreed, not letting his voice show how eager he was at the prospect. He took the potion from Tom and then continued. “Go and lie face down on the couch without your shirt,” he instructed. Tom looked at him with some surprise.

“Master?” Harry raised his eyebrows at his slave. Sure, they hadn’t done it that way before, but that was because Tom had had bruises on both front and back, so it didn’t make much difference. Seeing his expression, Tom bowed his head. “Yes, master,” he replied and quickly stood to follow Harry’s instructions. Pleasure running through him at his slave’s quick compliance, Harry pushed away from his desk and walked over unhurriedly. On his way, he allowed himself the indulgence of raking his eyes along the smooth lines of Tom’s back. He was still far too skinny, Harry noted – his vertebrae stuck out like ridges on a dragon’s back, and his shoulder blades were too visible. Well, regular meals should fix that, he supposed.

Sitting down on the edge of the couch, placing himself so he was next to Tom’s hip and facing his head, he uncorked the muscle-relaxer. Dipping his fingers in, he started up at the top, massaging Tom’s neck near his head and then covering the long stretch between there and between his shoulder blades. Moving the collar, he ensured that the _whole_ of Tom’s neck got treatment. After hearing how that bastard had kept wrenching him around by his collar – the deep bruising which had been under it evidence to the truth of his statement – and feeling the weight of the chain Tom had had locked to his D-ring, Harry hadn’t been surprised to feel tense muscles and tendons in that area. It was a lot better now, but he still paid extra attention to that section of Tom’s spine. If part of his focus was also because he loved the feeling of Tom’s delicate neck under his hands…well, no one else knew that, did they?

Whimpers already emerging from Tom’s throat, Harry smoothed his hands down, working at the stretch between Tom’s shoulders. Because his spine was so prominent, Harry made sure not to press at it directly, instead stroking and pressing the muscle running down on either side of it, as well as those stretching away to cover Tom’s back.

By the time Harry moved onto Tom’s mid-back area, and then his lower-back, his slave was more identifiable as a puddle than as a human. He was completely relaxed, a soft moan almost continually emerging, though it increased in volume and intensity whenever Harry attacked a particularly stubborn knot.

Finally, it was done – Harry couldn’t justify stretching it out any longer. He’d covered the whole area of Tom’s back with the cream, and the man had clearly lost almost all tension in his upper body. He stood up.

“Well, that’s done,” he replied, trying to sound cheerful. A vague murmur was his only response. Harry looked at Tom in some confusion. The man wasn’t usually that…incoherent. Crouching down by his head, Harry pushed the hair out of Tom’s eyes, only to take in a sudden breath as he saw their expression. Tom’s pupils were practically _blown_ , and the expression in them was completely spacy. Should he be worried? Harry wondered – this was so _not_ Tom that he was unsure what to do.

He knew how to deal with angry Tom, defiant Tom, grumpy Tom. In recent times he’d actually had some experience with sad Tom and despairing Tom. And in the last couple of nights with oddly-vulnerable Tom. But this…? Where Tom seemed completely unaware of anything that was going on around him? This was new. In the end, Harry just sat back on the edge of the couch and stroked his hand through Tom’s hair and down his neck until he started showing more awareness in his gaze.

Then, wondering if he’d like a bit of space, Harry patted his shoulder and then went back to his desk. When, a few moments later, Tom pushed himself off the couch, Harry watched him to see what he was planning on doing. He looked unsteady, Harry noticed with some concern, but in the end he managed to get to his destination – Harry’s side. Dropping into a kneeling position beside Harry’s chair, he _nuzzled_ against Harry’s thigh and wrapped a loose arm around his master’s leg, as he had done once before. Dropping his hand to stroke through Tom’s hair, Harry couldn’t help a small smile from coming to his face as he turned back to his work.

Later, much later, Tom released Harry’s leg and lifted his head.

“Thank you, master,” he said, turning to meet eyes with Harry. In that warm scarlet gaze, Harry saw a deep gratitude and a deep peace, emotions which filled Harry with a surprising range of feelings: happiness, satisfaction, concern, joy, affection…

“You’re welcome,” he said finally, hoping that his own tone was able to say more than his words. After a moment of holding gazes, Tom pushed himself to his feet, stretching with a yawn, and then sauntered to the door. “Tom,” Harry said, just before he reached it, feeling a hint of mischief. His slave paused and half-turned back. “If you wanted a massage, you could have just asked for one,” he continued. And Tom Riddle…blushed. Not a lot, but there was a faint hint of pink to those chiselled cheeks of his. And if his muttered ‘yes master’ before he made his escape was terribly endearing? Once again, who else was going to know?

XXX

Tom lay back on the rug in front of the fire, enjoying its warmth on his body. He was supposed to be reading, but was finding it difficult to concentrate. Things had changed between him and Harry. He suppose it was natural, but couldn’t help wondering if this is what it could have been, had he given into his slavery from the start. Though, he supposed that Harry had been right – had he not had the proof by his own efforts, he would have never believed the collar was inescapable; would never have even considered the idea of truly submitting.

And then, had he not had that horrible experience with Richards where the future stretched out in front of him, a future that was so much bleaker than even his worst imaginings with Harry… He’d finally broken through the final barriers of pride – or was it fear? – that had prevented him from truly accepting his desire to submit, to give himself to his master. He wondered if he should feel grateful towards the man momentarily, but dismissed the thought a moment later – it wasn’t like the Auror had _intended_ to help, after all. 

And now…the last two days had been full of a peace which Tom had never felt before. He’d always been on guard, striving for something. And now? Now all he needed to strive for was his master’s pleasure. And he had found deep satisfaction in that. Bringing his master food, helping him with his work, just being present with him…it had all sent tingles of pleasure through him that had had nothing to do with the collar.

As for the nights he’d spent with his master…Tom never thought he’d enjoy sleeping with someone in a non-sexual sense. And even in a sexual sense, he’d never actually _slept_ with them – he’d always kicked them out of his bed, or left theirs, after the event. Sleeping with other people in the room had ever been a tense time for him: at the orphanage, at Hogwarts, he’d always had to be on guard in case someone tried to prank or attack him in the night. He remembered laying traps near his bed – at first things like upturned pins and crackly paper, and then when he knew some magic, it was hexes and, later, curses which would incapacitate an unexpected attacker. So really, sleeping with someone in the same bed should have been hell for him.

But it wasn’t. It was heaven instead. The reason? Harry. Harry had deeply touched him, and even his subconscious mind apparently trusted him completely. The knowledge of his presence, the smell of him embedded in the sheets…it all relaxed Tom so much that he slept _better_ than in his own room. So much so that the previous night, he hadn’t actually had a nightmare, but after tossing and turning for hours, he had decided that there was no harm in trying. The worst would be Harry sending him back to his room, he’d thought. But Harry hadn’t even asked any questions: he’d just invited Tom straight in. Maybe…maybe he’d liked sharing a bed too?

Tom had been pleased to see in the mirror after his shower that all the bruising, even the deep ones which had been under his collar, had disappeared thanks to the repeated applications of the bruise balm. The whip wheals were a lot better, looking weeks into their healing rather than days, but they were still a bit red. Unfortunately, the second whipping Tom had had had broken through his skin in a few places, so he hadn’t been surprised to hear that they would probably scar. He didn’t like the fact that Richards had managed to leave marks when his master hadn’t…but then on the other hand, they were in a way proof of what Tom had gone through to get to his realisation.

Still, despite not having the excuse of needing healing pastes stroked onto his skin, he had found the desire to feel his master’s touch and so had approached him with the muscle-relaxer. He’d been almost surprised when his master had agreed to doing it – Tom had felt guilty at disrupting his studies. But he’d done it…and it had felt _wonderful_. At some point during his massage, Tom had got this fantastic floaty feeling, almost like he was flying without a broom. The world had receded away – it had been only him and his master there. They had been the only things important about the world.

He’d been grateful when Master had stayed to stroke his head and neck gently, even after he’d finished the massage – Tom had felt a swoop of fear when he’d stood up, but had been unable to articulate anything. His sheer inability to react, to do _anything_ should have been terrifying. But it wasn’t, because, once again, he trusted Harry with everything he was. In that state, Harry could have done anything and he would have welcomed it, because it came from his master’s hand. But once again, he showed he was worthy of Tom’s trust as all he had done was give pleasure.

Afterwards, he had felt the need to be close to his master, and had settled at his feet, knowing deep inside that that was where he was supposed to be. And then Harry had turned around and revealed that he’d known what Tom was about all along. Tom almost shook his head as the memory of that embarrassment came back to him. He’d thought he was pulling the wool over his master’s eyes, and he’d felt a bit guilty about that; had felt that he was taking advantage of his master’s desire to see him well just so that he could feel Harry’s touch on his skin. But no, Harry had _known_ what he was doing, and he had still decided to indulge Tom. Such a difference from Richards who hadn’t even been able to detect his insincerity when he hadn’t even been _trying_ to conceal it…

Tom knew he should feel nervous at the knowledge that he was bound for life to a man who could see through him in a way that no one else ever had, but…once again, the fact that it was _Harry_ removed any fear. And in fact, after all those years of always projecting a persona of some type, it was freeing to be able to be himself with his master.

Tom looked at Harry in the armchair by the fire, paging through a quidditch magazine as his after-work reward, and was suddenly hit by a sudden wave of longing. He wished he could be there, feeling Harry’s gentle fingers caress along his skin as they caressed the pages of the magazine, his eyes devour him as much as they devoured the information about quidditch. He thought about how they’d woken up the previous morning: how he’d enjoyed feeling Harry’s arm around his waist, his hand on his chest, for all that he was pressing on some of the bruises and that it was over cloth. He remembered the warmth of Harry’s body pressing against his back, his morning wood nudging Tom’s buttocks. He remembered a similar wake-up that morning, though this time Harry had been on his back and it had been Tom who had cuddled up to him, curling into his shoulder and side, despite being taller. And again, his leg thrown over Harry’s groin had felt a lump there.

Although Harry had removed his spells and let Tom out of the room before his shower that morning, Tom remembered back to the groan he had heard from the bathroom on Saturday morning. It had been a very recognisable sound, for all that he’d never heard it from Harry before. Kneeling by the door, Tom had found himself wondering – as he had on occasions since – what Harry had been thinking of as he had orgasmed. And he questioned, should he be concerned that his first reaction was to hope that his master had been thinking of him?

And then, as if hit by a lightning bolt, it was all plain. In denying himself, he was also denying _Harry_. Hadn’t his master expressed his desire, his affection, his lust through every hungry look, every comforting embrace? Hadn’t he proved his words that he wouldn’t take Tom without permission? Why was Tom denying him out of some sense of fear? Having expressed his desire to submit, having acknowledged his love for the man, why was he still holding back? He trusted Harry with his life, with his will; why not trust him with this? And not only that, but Tom realised with a deep longing that he truly wanted to explore this area with his master for his own sake, not only that of his master.

His mind made up, he put the book aside and sat up, pushing himself to his knees, his hands going to the buttons on his shirt. His master looked up at the sudden movement, a surprised look that turned into astonishment on his face as he saw Tom’s actions.

“Tom, what are you…?” With a deft gesture, Tom flicked his undone shirt off his shoulders and let it fall off his arms. Crawling forward the couple of paces between himself and his master, he slid onto his master’s lap fluidly; removing the magazine from Harry’s limp hands, he replaced it with himself. “Tom?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse, his eyes lighting with desire. Tom gloried in the heat of the blaze, rubbing himself against the evidence of desire which was already pressing itself against him.

“I know you want me,” he murmured. “I’m giving you permission to _take_.” Harry swallowed, his hands seemingly moving of their own accord to trace across Tom’s lithe chest, stroke his lightly-defined muscles, caress his flat stomach. Each touch felt like fire and Tom threw back his head and moaned at the pleasure sparked at every caress, his newfound abandonment to his submission giving him the freedom to express his utter joy at his master’s touch.

“Tom,” Master moaned in response and Tom loved the sound his name made on his master’s tongue. But then those hands were removed. Tom looked down to see why, only for his heart to sink. Harry wasn’t lost in the pleasure; his arousal wasn’t burning brighter. Instead, he’d withdrawn mentally, was controlling his emotions. The insistent lump beneath Tom was the only indication that he still felt any of that hunger he’d shown so little time ago. “Tom,” Harry said, and this time his master didn’t moan. His voice didn’t reverberate with lust. “We can’t do this.” The words hit Tom like an arrow in the heart.

“But, master,” he pleaded. “I know you want it. I want it too! Why…?” he trailed off, unable to put his terrible fear into words. His master shook his head.

“No,” and this time, his voice was steely, implacable. “We are not doing this. Not now.” Tom felt completely crushed. Even realising he would never be free again, something which had seemed so momentous until recently, seemed like a small moment of discontent in comparison to the wave of despair that swept him now. He slid off his master’s lap, collapsing to his knees on the floor, his legs unable to hold him at the revelation.

His downcast eyes fell on the still-vivid red welt which wrapped around his waist from his back and he chuckled bitterly. Of course his master didn’t want him: he carried marks from another, signs of how badly behaved he had been. Or perhaps it was disgust that here was evidence that he had submitted to someone else, that he had taken Richards’ punishment without a fight. That he had betrayed his master. He had forced the man to put him down hard to make him submit, but he had submitted all the same. He had been marred by someone else, marked by him. Had had his spend decorate his cheek. At such evidence, it was no wonder his master didn’t want him. A hot tear trickled down his cheek and dripped onto his knees, making a spot in the fabric of his trousers.

He wanted nothing more than to disappear, but Master hadn’t dismissed him, and Tom was determined to be a good slave for his master. It was the least he could do after everything…

“Merlin, Tom,” he heard his master mutter above him a moment before his chin was gripped by a gentle, yet firm hand that forced him to lift his chin. He kept his eyes downcast, not feeling worthy of even meeting his master’s gaze, but the command to look at Master which followed removed even that from him. “What’s going through your head? Tell me what you’re thinking.” Unable to disobey his master’s command, even had he wanted to, Tom replied in a broken voice.

“You-you don’t want me. I betrayed you by submitting to Richards and now you don’t want me.”

“Merlin, Tom,” Master repeated, sounding horrified. Tom shivered at the confirmation of his fears. “It’s nothing to do with that!” Wait, what? Tom looked back at his master’s eyes, a faint frown forming between his brows in his confusion.

“Then why won’t you take me as you want? As we _both_ want,” he emphasised, in case Harry was refusing him out of thinking that he didn’t want it. Harry had repeatedly proved himself honourable enough to stick to his principles, regardless of his desires. Harry shook his head and his heart sank once more.

“Tom…It’s not that I don’t want you, Merlin, I want you,” he explained, sounding a bit helpless. “Having you on my lap, touching your skin…it’s something I’ve been dreaming of for _months_.”

“Then why not do it, master?” Tom asked, just as helplessly. He spread his arms wide, kneeling up so his upper body was on full display. “I’m here, I’m willing, just _take_ me.” The light of desire lit once more in those emerald eyes, but it was quickly extinguished as Harry closed his eyes and took in a shuddering breath.

“Because I don’t know that you are willing, not truly,” he murmured finally. Tom frowned in confusion, his brow furrowing properly this time. Harry evidently saw his complete bemusement, and explained. “You’ve just come out of a situation where…where you weren’t allowed any agency. A situation which you feel I rescued you from. I think…I think it would be completely normal for your judgement to be a bit…skewed at the moment.”

“I’m not broken, master,” Tom objected, because he wasn’t. He had made some very important decisions, it was true, but they were all things that that had been building before the whole mess with Richards. “I promised my complete submission to you, master. Because I trust you with it. All the recent events have meant is that I suddenly realised how I couldn’t give you my complete submission to you without this. You have all of me in the palm of your hand and I know that you won’t let me fall.” His master drew in a sharp breath at the sheer emotion and sincerity in his voice.

“You really mean that?” he asked, a strange mix of wonder, disbelief and strangled hope coming through in his tone.

“I do, master,” Tom told him quietly. Harry took in another deep breath, letting it come out as a sigh.

“Then we will revisit it later. I’m not saying ‘no’, Tom, I’m just saying ‘not yet’.”

“But master,” Tom objected, “I’m ready _now_.” He knew he was whining, but so close to what he desired, he couldn’t help it. When his master looked back at him, though, he knew it was pointless. There was the steel in his gaze that he had seen too many times before.

“No, Tom. If you trust me as much as you say you do, then trust me in this. Maybe you’re ready; maybe you’re not. Either way, _I’m_ not. Give me some time to get used to the idea, OK?” Tom nodded, bowing his head in submission. He hadn’t wanted to push his master into anything he wasn’t ready for yet. Once more, he showed how much of a bad slave he was. That grip was back on his chin. “Hey,” Harry said softly. “Stop berating yourself, OK? I’m your master, yes?” Tom tried to nod, but couldn’t without dislodging Harry’s hand so answered verbally instead.

“Yes, master.”

“Then trust me when I say that you are not to blame in any way for my decision. You have given yourself into my care; now give your guilt, your worries to me too. They are not your concern: as your master, they are mine.” Tom felt a weight lift off him as he realised the truth of the words – truly, he didn’t need to feel any guilt unless he disobeyed his master: all else was in his master’s keeping. Unable to speak, he hoped the gratitude shining through his eyes was enough to speak for him. Harry looked at him thoughtfully. “I suppose a kiss might not hurt,” he said consideringly.

Tom hadn’t even processed the words before those plush lips were crashing down on his. The sensation of soft plumpness massaging his own made him moan, in the process letting his master’s tongue dip inside his mouth. Harry _devoured_ him, the hand that had been on his chin moving to the back of his neck and weaving with his hair. Tom couldn’t have defied the grip if he’d wanted to, and he really didn’t.

A few impossibly pleasurable moments later, Harry pulled back breathing heavily, his eyes blown with lust and arousal, his face red. He licked his lips and Tom couldn’t help but follow the movement of that pink tongue, wishing it was back in his mouth, devouring him once more. He was sure he looked just as dishevelled as Harry if not more so. He realised he was panting, his trousers feeling far too tight in his crotch. Harry looked down at him and smirked.

“Now there’s a picture for my photo album,” he said suggestively. Tom felt a blush creeping up his cheeks. Then, sobering, his master picked his quidditch magazine back up from where Tom had laid it and looked at him pointedly. “Much as I enjoy seeing you shirtless, and I _really_ do, you’re a bit distracting like that. Put your shirt back on, please. Then, either find something to do here – that isn’t me,” he hurriedly added on, “or go do something else.” Tom shuffled sideways to grab his shirt, shrugging it back on, though leaving the top couple of buttons undone. It was more comfortable like that; that it might tempt his master to change his mind was _not_ the reason he did it. Honest. Then, not wanting to leave the room and wanting to be close to his master, he just got a book from the pile he had stored near the fireplace and settled next to Harry’s chair. When Harry’s hand came to stroke through his hair a few moments later, he grinned a little in victory and shifted closer. 

XXX


	11. Part 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Tom and Harry are not on the same page. In fact, they might not even be in the same *book*.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack! :D Thanks for those who expressed concern over the length of time between updates - I have to be unpredictable sometimes ;) 
> 
> This was a bit of a hard chapter to write, partially because it doesn't really *go* anywhere. Unlike the previous chapter which had a whole load of fluff, this one is back to our regular angst. Limbo, really. Things start moving a bit in the next chapter, and with the amount of plot I have left to write, I'd say 14 chapters in total for this work is probably accurate. On the other hand, I could be wrong...
> 
> On that note, if there's anything you desperately want to see happening in this story before it wraps up, please tell me now. I'm not promising to include it, but if you tell me, it might spark an idea... 
> 
> Not many warnings for this fic, and none that I'd say are necessary to put here. As usual, see the end of the chapter if you want to be absolutely sure. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

Monday morning, six thirty am; Harry lay in bed. It hadn’t been a good night. Tom hadn’t slept in the same bed as him that night, though the man had asked him if he could the previous evening. Harry had felt bad turning him down, and the disappointed look in his eyes had cut through him like a knife, but he had felt it was necessary after what had happened earlier that day. He’d spent a long time tossing and turning, the bed feeling too big. During his periods of sleeplessness, he had found his mind going through the various events since he had reclaimed Tom from that bastard Auror, continually returning to the times where Tom had offered everything Harry had ever wanted…but he had been unable to accept.

Harry had known Tom had been struggling with accepting his slavery, but had hoped that the revelation that the slavery was endless would have helped Tom come to terms with it a little more. And then, Harry had barely dared hope, but after he’d seen signs in Tom that he didn’t mind some of the aspects of slavery too much, had in fact enjoyed some of what they were building together…well, Harry had dreamed that perhaps, one day in the future, Tom would come to him, would say that Harry had earned his trust, that he _wanted_ Harry’s leadership…that he would give his submission willingly because Harry had _earned_ it.

And now, Richards had _ruined_ it. For the first time, Harry realised his anger at the man wasn’t because of what he had done to Tom, or not completely at least. No, it was because of how it appeared that he had ruined what he and Tom had been creating together.

He had brute-forced his way into Tom’s psyche and had left it in turmoil. He had managed in two weeks what Harry realised he had been trying to do for the past eight months. And with a feeling of nausea, Harry suddenly recognised that he and Richards were not all that different; they just had different methods. They had both wanted to subjugate Tom, to force him to bend to their desires and their image of him. They both wanted Tom to kneel at their feet, to desire to please them. They both enjoyed it when he was humiliated, when he struggled to obey. It was just that Richards had tried to use pain, and Harry…Harry had been a lot more manipulative; a lot more _insidious_.

Looking back on his own actions, Harry could only feel disgust at himself. For ever thinking that Tom could actually come to the point where he would, of his own accord, desire to submit to Harry. Why would he do so? For all that he looked less than thirty, he was over seventy, and his life hadn’t been quiet, hadn’t been boring. No, as Ollivander had said all those years ago, he had done great things, terrible, but great. What had Harry done?

He had managed to survive. That was all. Through luck, through his friends’ support, through determination and an inability to give up, he had survived. But it hadn’t been because of anything _he’d_ done. It wasn’t because of anything he _was_. Voldemort had had to be stopped, and Harry was the only one who could apparently do it. He was certainly the only one who was willing to step up to the plate and actually face the monster face to face. But that didn’t mean he deserved to have someone swear submission to him.

Maybe he should feel grateful to Richards for ripping away the deception he had been using on himself. For showing him that for all he had been trying his whole life not to become like Uncle Vernon, he had just become a different kind of abuser.

But he couldn’t be grateful; he was just _angry_. And disappointed in himself for hoping for what he’d come to realise was an impossibility, a fantasy.

Sighing, he decided to get up – it wasn’t like he was going to get to sleep again, and he would have to get up shortly anyway. Grumpy, he did his ablutions and then went down to the sitting room to do some administrative tasks. He sent off the request for a lunchtime meeting on Tuesday with his owl to Gringotts – hopefully he’d hear back from them soon enough. Then, burying himself in his studying, he pushed away his thoughts of the morning, or tried to, at least.

An hour later, Harry and Tom sat down to breakfast together. Once again, Tom had cooked and a nice plate of eggs and bacon sat in front of Harry. Sitting at the table without the distraction of his work, he found his thoughts wandering back to the dark path of the morning, his barring of Tom from his bed, and the events of the previous evening.

There were multiple reasons for both his refusal to share a bed with Tom and his rejection of Tom’s wish to engage in sexual relations with him; the former was a direct consequence of the latter, after all. The first reason was the simplest. Shifting their relationship from their present one of…well, slave and master didn’t quite cover it, but friends didn’t seem to fit exactly right either… Whatever it was, their relationship seemed to be working fine as it was, and shifting it to something else could risk ruining what they had completely. Unlike any other potential couple, they wouldn’t be able to leave each other should the attempt fail – even if they were unable to be lovers, they would still remain master and slave, and would still need to be in regular, preferably amicable, contact. Sure, it could also end up being something better than either of them had ever dreamed of, but…. It wasn’t that the risk made Harry rule out the idea completely, it was just that in order to take the risk, he needed to be a lot more confident that this was _truly_ what Tom wanted.

And therein lay the second, more complex reason for his refusal. It was just the same as he had thought about on Saturday morning, after that…lapse of control in the shower. For all that he desperately wanted Tom in a sexual manner – as well as in a number of other ways which he still wasn’t comfortable thinking about – it all came down to consent, and Tom’s inability to give it. And as the master in the relationship, ultimately, the decision, and therefore the responsibility, came down to him.

It wasn’t that Harry felt that Tom wasn’t _capable_ of giving or withholding consent, it was just that the situation was complicated. As a slave, Tom could willingly give his consent for any number of reasons, none of which could be the _right_ reason, in Harry’s opinion. For all that the previous day he had seemed genuinely _attracted_ to Harry, and enjoyed his touch – Harry wasn’t oblivious to how the massage he had given Tom had affected him – his _demeanour_ was concerning. Concerning for the same reasons as Harry had been concerned by Tom offering willing submission. It had been too much change, too fast.

Tom had gone from having a breakdown over the idea that he would be a slave for the rest of his life to suddenly declaring that he _wanted_ Harry to be his master, in the space of three weeks. And they hadn’t been calm weeks either – no, Tom had been thrown into the hands of someone who had hurt him, who had treated him like an object, or an animal that didn’t even deserve basic consideration. Harry couldn’t help worrying that that was affecting his judgement. Instead of his offer of submission, his offer of his _consent_ , coming from a position of careful thought and consideration, Harry feared that it was coming from a position of trauma and fear.

Harry worried that Tom was reacting based on either fear of what _had_ happened, in terms of Richards, or fear of what _could_ happen, such as he had expressed not so long ago. After the whole mess with Diagon Alley, Tom had worried that Harry would become a sadistic master like the one Draco had had, given enough time. Was it unrealistic to think that perhaps Tom could be acting pre-emptively; giving Harry what he had stated he wanted so that he wouldn’t one day just take it?

What else could explain his sudden change in character? What else could explain why Tom had gone from almost breaking down in fear not so long ago that Harry would…would _rape_ him, to suddenly offering _everything_? What else could explain why the defiant, independent, intelligent man – who had been one of Hogwarts’ most brilliant students in the last few generations and who had been so charismatic that he had convinced two generations of blood-purist purebloods to follow a half-blood – would suddenly turn into someone who looked at Harry with those trust-filled eyes and told him that his life, his _complete submission_ was in Harry’s hands? _Harry’s_ hands – a man who was barely more than a boy, who didn’t have a fraction of the intelligence, knowledge or life experience that Tom possessed; whose only real achievement had been being _lucky_. 

Sure, he seemed genuine about it now, but would he still feel that way in a week, a month’s time? Harry had to face the (likely) possibility that in time, Tom would regret giving his consent to a sexual relationship, his avowal of submission to Harry’s will. And at that point…Harry wasn’t sure he would have the strength of will to step back; to pull things back to the way they were at present.

Harry hadn’t had much experience with relationships – a war wasn’t exactly the best time to explore romance, after all. He had had some sex, though. Mostly post-raid romps with one of the people who he’d fought with, but there had been two people he’d had more than a few tumbles in the sheets with. It hadn’t been a romantic relationship with any of them – with all of them, it had been more of a celebration that they were still alive, that they had managed to overcome the traps and the treachery of Voldemort and his Death Eaters for one more day: companionship rather than love. But for all that he’d had little experience, it had been enough for him to work out some preferences.

With his lovers, he had always been the more dominant one, even when that had caused sparks to flare between them. He hadn’t always been on _top_ – he enjoyed being penetrated on occasion too – but he had always wanted to be in _control_. The one occasion where he had tried out the more submissive role had been one of the most unsatisfying experiences he had had. He hadn’t been able to relax; had had to fight his desire to take control at every moment. One of his lovers had analysed it as being a result of his childhood and teenage years – he’d _never_ been in control of his life and now he had the opportunity, he showed it through everything.

Harry was unsure about whether that was true or not. Certainly, his desire to control and dominate had only increased as his actual control on the war, his mission, his _life_ had decreased, which gave credence to her analysis. Sometimes, however, he wondered whether it was just the dark beast inside him coming out in another way, the dark beast which purred in satisfaction at the screams of his enemies. He feared that if he gave into it, if he allowed himself to _take_ Tom the way he wanted…that the beast would go out of control and he would hurt someone. In that case it would probably be Tom, considering that the man had no defence against him.

Although he had never had a proper _relationship_ per se, he knew what he desired from Tom, where his fantasies took him. He knew that what he wanted was nothing less than Tom’s complete submission to his desires, whether that was in a sexual or non-sexual sense. It gave him great pleasure to give Tom orders and know that the man would complete them, simply because Harry had given them. At the moment he was aware that this was probably due at least in part to the collar’s threat of punishment if Tom didn’t comply; one day he had hoped that it would get to the point that Tom _wanted_ to complete them, simply because he knew it would please Harry, but, well, his early morning conclusions had stuck with him and made his mood darker than usual.

He sincerely doubted that Tom would ever want that. Whether anyone _could_ want that. It had been one reason Harry had decided against pursuing things with Ginny. After her experiences during the war she had become a lot more…sensitive. Not fragile – he didn’t think he could ever describe her as that – but the only time they had tried kissing, Harry had got a bit carried away, pushing her against the wall and curling his hand into her hair. She’d panicked. Harry had backed away immediately, of course, and he had apologised until she had told him to shut up, but he had still felt absolutely _terrible_. After that, they’d avoided each other for a while before agreeing not to try again. Of course, Harry hadn’t spoken to Ron about it: he knew the other man would have been torn between his protectiveness as a brother, and his loyalty to his best friend. Besides, she hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and he had respected her wishes.

It did make him feel like a…freak, though.

He was a mess, he could admit that to himself. He enjoyed seeing Tom on his knees, enjoyed hearing ‘master’ come from his lips in a respectful tone. The rush that happened when his slave obeyed him despite not knowing why he had given the command, or even better, when he didn’t _want_ to…it was amazing. And it was even better when Tom did so without the collar’s punishment prompting him. But the best of all was when he was given a demonstration of how much Tom trusted him: when he dozed against Harry’s leg; when he revealed his vulnerability, something Harry knew he had rarely (if ever) done. That was one reason Harry had been almost unable to say ‘no’ to Tom’s request to sleep once more in the same bed – that Tom could make himself so vulnerable as to sleep next to the one person who could hurt him beyond all others…it was an amazing amount of trust and Harry felt honoured that he had been given that.

With every taste of Tom’s trust, of his submission to Harry’s will and desires…it just made Harry crave more. And that was the real reason behind him denying both himself and Tom the previous day – he was worried that if he gave in, he would become addicted and be unable to give it up, even if, when, Tom suddenly realised that he didn’t want it. And Tom didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to have a master who had completely lost control and forced him to give all of himself, if he didn’t want that.

He was already forcibly a slave, for Merlin’s sake. He was forced to submit in public or risk causing problems for both of them. Harry had forced him to submit at home because he had refused to have a constant battle of wills with a dominant dark lord. And sure, he’d been saying recently that he _wanted_ to submit completely to Harry, but again, how could that be possible? It brought Harry’s thoughts back around to worrying that the only reason Tom was saying these things was because he’d been convinced by that bastard Richards’ treatment. His thoughts felt like they were going around and around in circles, rehashing the same arguments again and again with no resolution.

It was immensely frustrating. Harry almost felt like he was back at the Dursleys – being forced to create lavish meals, only to have to stand to one side and watch as others ate them, not allowed a single bite himself. He wanted Tom’s willing submission with a desperate desire that surprised him in his intensity. He wanted Tom to yield himself, his body, his will to Harry’s care because he _trusted_ Harry and desired Harry’s leading just as much in return. But he doubted that that was ever possible, and in making the attempt to justify why it might be possible, he became further disgusted at himself; how could Tom trust him if he constantly teetered on the edge of going against his principles, just because he desperately wanted what his mind told him was highly unlikely. Tom had always been independent and headstrong – look at how he had refused Dumbledore’s company when he was _eleven_. Surely Tom couldn’t change that much?

“Master?” Tom’s voice brought him out of his thoughts. Harry looked up at him after first making sure his expression was cleared of any emotion which might have given a clue as to what he’d been thinking.

“Yes?” he responded. His slave hesitated before finally starting.

“Are you alright?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice. Harry tried to force a smile on his lips, but it clearly failed lamentably if the increase in concern in Tom’s eyes was anything to go by.

“I’m fine,” he said, the words more an ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ than actually expressing any sort of emotional stability. He decided to distract by changing the subject. “What are you planning on doing today?” Tom eyed him for another moment before going with the topic shift.

“I was looking at our stocks while cooking breakfast and we’re pretty low - I hadn’t done the shopping for almost a week when…when everything happened. I was hoping you could take me out of the wards before leaving for Hogwarts.” It was Harry’s turn to eye Tom.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Tom looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“We need food; why wouldn’t it be?” Harry hesitated, not wanting to bring up bad memories but…

“With your… _experiences_ over the last two weeks,” he said delicately, “do you think it’s a good idea to go to the grocery shops alone?” Tom got a mulish look on his face.

“Master, I am _fine_ ,” he emphasised. “Now that I’m back here with you, everything is fine.” Harry eyed him once more, but in the end mentally shrugged. Yes, he could easily forbid Tom from going – heck, all he needed to do was refuse to take him through the wards. He didn’t want to do that, though, as much as a big portion of him was screaming that it was a bad idea to send a newly-traumatised person into an unknown situation with a load of strangers – if Tom thought he was well enough to go, Harry was determined not to be that controlling person who held him back out of misplaced concern.

“Alright,” he said reluctantly, letting his feeling that this was a bad idea come through his voice. “Get yourself ready and I’ll take you out in ten minutes.”

“Thank you, master,” Tom said, the mixed emotions in his voice confusing Harry. He could hear gratitude there, which made sense, but also a different feeling which he couldn’t identify. A moment later, the opportunity to question Tom was gone: the man flicked his wand a few times to clean the plates and send them and the other breakfast bits into their correct places, and then he left the room.

When he came back he was holding the card Harry had set up for Tom’s use for shopping: not wanting to be bothered by cash all the time, it had made more sense just to create a muggle bank account specifically for Tom’s use and transfer money into it every so often from one of his other muggle accounts. He had also picked up the gold disc Harry had made for Tom all those weeks ago. Tom pocketed the card, but then hesitated, holding the disk out to Harry.

“Please, master?” he asked, tilting his chin upwards. Harry felt a wave of pleasure go through him at the realisation that Tom wanted _him_ to put the disk on, instead of doing it himself as he usually did. Clipping the disk to the D-ring, he once more admired how it looked – the gold standing out handsomely against the black of Tom’s collar and the pale white of his throat. Silver would probably do a better job, though, he thought critically. Clearing his throat to stop his eyes from wandering up and down that long column that he yearned to kiss, to _mark_ , he looked back at Tom’s eyes.

“Remember, if you need me, hold the disk for more than five seconds. I’ll come as soon as I can. Alright?”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied, his voice finally sounding more normal.

A few minutes later, they both stepped out of Grimmauld Place’s wards and Harry apparated away.

XXX

Tom stood outside Grimmauld Place, staring at the spot his master had been standing in a moment ago. The realisation that he was gone, gone somewhere Tom couldn’t follow sent an icy hand gripping at his heart. It was almost surprising how much Harry’s absence had affected Tom, despite him knowing that the man would be back in a few hours. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised at his fear, though – the last time he had left for a few hours, it had in fact turned into two weeks. Two weeks which had been hell for Tom, more because of his own emotions than because of anything Richards had done.

Still, it felt irrational. Master had made sure that the Minister had no power over him, so that should mean that even should a similar situation occur, he wouldn’t be able to be forced out of the wards as he had before. _But you’re not in the wards_ , a little voice reminded him. Tom cast an uncertain glance at the door to Grimmauld Place, because it was true – he _was_ outside the wards; by his own insistence.

When Harry had given way to his arguments about doing the grocery shopping, Tom hadn’t been sure what to feel. Gratitude? His whole reason for insisting in the first place had been because he had wanted to show Harry that he was _fine_ ; that Richards hadn’t broken him. After some time thinking about his master’s refusal to his advances, he’d come to the conclusion that it was Harry’s morals getting in the way – that until he was certain his slave was acting out of desire for him, and not fear of Richards or Harry’s reaction, he wouldn’t be open to taking their relationship further. That Harry had denied him a place in his bed the previous night had hurt – he regretted his advances the previous evening if it had made his master too uncomfortable to bear his presence while he was vulnerable. Not to mention it had led to a rather restless night: without his master’s presence, Tom had found himself beset by both nightmares and vaguely unpleasant dreams. Still, he had respected his master’s wishes because they had been clearly and firmly made and hadn’t left his bed until morning.

And that was why he was feeling a bit mixed about Harry acquiescence that morning – there was a part of him that knew Harry considered the whole thing a bad idea, and if he did, Tom wished he had just forced the issue and told Tom to stay home. He had come to deeply distrust his own ability to make decisions, and longed for Harry to take that from him. But he couldn’t ask for it, because in asking, he once more made a decision. He wondered with a hint of humour about how he had got from hating his master giving him orders to actually _desiring_ them.

But Harry hadn’t forced it; he’d gone with Tom’s request, so Tom sighed and turned away from the house and the security it offered. He’d get the groceries done and then get back as quickly as possible. Almost absently, his hand reached up and brushed against the gold tag which tinkled gently as the clip moved against the D-ring. Its presence, and that his master had put it on him, sent a wave of warmth through him, dispelling some of the icy fear which lingered despite his rationalisations. With the tag, he had a way of contacting his master – it was almost like he took a piece of the man with him.

His thoughts wandered to when he was given it the first time, and the way he had feared that Harry would engrave some sort of marking of his ownership of Tom on it. Now…now he _knew_ he wouldn’t mind it. In fact, there was a small part of him, one which he barely dared to face even with his new realisations, which actually _craved_ some obvious mark of being his master’s possession, beyond the collar which was simply standard for all slaves. If he’d had something like that when he had been with Richards…

Shaking his head, the thought and its accompanying emotions making him uncomfortable, he started off on the walk to the grocery store. He directed his mind to thinking about the future. Now that he had realised he would never be free, that he would be with Harry for the rest of his life, however long that might be, he needed to think about the future.

The idea of the future didn’t fill him with dread in the same way as it had before, right after he had realised that the collar was unbreakable. It was amazing how much a little perspective could change his viewpoint. Knowing with his head that Harry was a good master was one thing; now he knew it with his heart as well.

The last eight months – or perhaps it was eleven months: for all that the experience at the Ministry had been more an exercise of defiance than anything else, it had still played its part in the changes he had gone through – had been nothing less than a complete shift in his mind-set. One by one, he had been forced to break down the lies with which he had surrounded himself. And as a result, he had found himself again – Tom Riddle once more, but a wiser version. He knew now that despite his magical power and his knowledge, he should _never_ be trusted with power _over_ someone – not even himself. But he wouldn’t just give his allegiance to anyone – no, the only one who deserved it was Harry: the person he had hurt terribly, but who in the end had saved him from himself. For Harry he would kill, and he would withhold his blade. For Harry, he would kneel, and he would stand tall. For Harry, he would study and learn with fervour, and he would teach.

So the future didn’t matter, in a way. Tom had undergone a paradigm shift and where his focus had always centred in increasing his own personal power, whether that be political, magical, or otherwise, now it was on pleasing his master. Harry would choose his direction, and Tom would support him in it, regardless of what he needed. Tom desired to please his master sexually, because he knew Harry wanted it. If Harry hadn’t wanted his slave’s attentions, Tom would have never broached the subject, doing his best to fight his own attraction to the man. But he did, and Tom wanted nothing more than for Harry to overcome his moral qualms and just _take_ what he was offering, both sexually and otherwise. Though he had come to appreciate how his master would uphold his beliefs with a will of steel, it could also be rather annoying at times.

Filled with an affectionate frustration, he took a basket and entered Sainsbury’s with thoughts still swirling in his mind. He kept vacillating between plotting ideas of how to make his master understand that his desire to submit wasn’t anything to do with Richards, not truly, and guilt that once again he was trying to find ways of manipulating his master. It was so _hard_ to fight his nature – that’s why he needed his master…maybe he should just _talk_ to the man when he came back? Harry had told him to do that before, after all…

Walking around the shop, he forcibly kept his mind on what they needed. Some fruit and vegetables, yes. He’d had to throw out most of what they’d had in the fridge because it had all gone mushy and/or started growing mould. In fact, one cheese had been eyed dubiously as Tom had wondered if it was close to developing legs and becoming self-aware – mould in a magical fridge must never be underestimated. He had actually cast a Killing Curse at it, just to make sure. The collar hadn’t punished him when the curse landed, so he figured that at least the cheese-mould hybrid hadn’t gained sentience.

Passing on into the meat section, he chose a few cuts he was sure Harry would like. Then, after, having fetched a few more items he knew they needed, he headed towards the till. Standing in line, he suddenly became aware of the fact that not only had he not brought his coat – the warmth of the day rendering it unnecessary – but that he also hadn’t grabbed a scarf to bring with him. His realisation sent a sinking sensation through him, and suddenly he felt more vulnerable. He honestly hadn’t thought of it – recently, whenever he’d been outside the house, it had been in the Wizarding world and therefore somewhere where he _couldn’t_ pretend he wasn’t a slave, not even for a moment. So he hadn’t thought of it this morning, and now it was too late. He cast a glance over his shoulder, only to realise that the gaggle of teenage girls who had lined up behind him were staring at him and giggling and whispering to each other.

Tom clenched his teeth, and the hand on his basket held so tightly to its handle that his knuckles went white. He was painfully aware of the absence of his master, the realisation that he was alone here, in a situation that could very easily become dangerous for him. He gripped the mounting panic rising in his stomach with an iron fist, forcing it down. There was no reason to panic – none of these people would know what he was: he was in the muggle world, not the magical. Reminding himself of that, he kept looking forwards, ignoring the noises from behind him.

Getting out of the shop was a relief, and he strode through the streets as quickly as possible, just wanting to get home. He wasn’t prepared for the hand that came out to grab his shirt and pull him into a small alleyway between two shops, slamming him up against the wall. Breath knocked out of him, Tom went for his wand, but realised abruptly that he’d left it at home. Looking up, a snarl on his face, he saw the angry face of his assailant.

A man, not one he recognised. One thing he did recognise, though, was the wand that was suddenly pressing into his neck hard enough to bruise. Freezing, he forced himself to dip his gaze – after the problem less than a month ago, he didn’t have the slightest inclination to cause a scene, regardless of what happened. The issue here was that he had no expectation of Harry coming to help him out – his master was at Hogwarts and would be for a good few hours yet. His mind immediately went to the tag hanging from his collar. If he was able to hold that for five seconds, he knew Harry would come as soon as he could. But he was loath to disrupt his master’s learning if this was something he could get out of by himself.

“Well, lookie here,” the wizard said in tones of poisonous sweetness. “The great Dark Lord himself. What are you doing out here, _slave_? All by yourself?”

“My master sent me out for groceries,” Tom answered neutrally, doing his best to keep any anger or fear out of his voice. “He expects me back shortly,” he added. It wasn’t true, but maybe if the wizard believed it… The wizard laughed at him.

“Oh, how the mighty are fallen. The man who killed so many, who ruined the lives of even more, reduced to fetching _groceries_.” The wand was withdrawn a moment before a fist landed in Tom’s gut. He doubled over, wheezing. The bags of shopping dropped on the ground as his hands went to his stomach. Another blow struck him across the head, sending him staggering sideways. A kick to his legs made him fall onto the ground.

Anger rose inside him and he glared up at his assailant, but he held onto his magic with an iron grip – perhaps this man would be appeased by beating him for a while and would then leave. It would be so much better for Harry if that happened than if he lost control of his magic and caused a massive incident.

“You don’t know how much I’ve _dreamed_ of this,” the wizard gloated, a sick smile on his face as he looked down at Tom. “You and your _Death Eaters_ took our wands, said we weren’t real wizards; turned us out on the streets. Some of the others begged to be given the chance to prove that they were real witches and wizards, but I didn’t. I knew that you were all _monsters_ , so just scrounged what food I could, waiting for my chance at revenge. And look here – I’ve been rewarded for my patience. Who would have thought that I’d come across You-Know-Who himself, just wandering the streets of London?” His bared his teeth in a caricature of a smile, pure hunger in his eyes. “All helpless and at my mercy…what shall I do with you?” he asked rhetorically, tapping his wand on his chin as if in thought. Tom’s heart sank – if this was one of those muggleborn wizards who had suffered under his reign, as it sounded like, then he wasn’t surprised at the anger. He wouldn’t accept it, though – Harry was the only one allowed to punish him for his crimes. That was what had been decreed by Lady Magic. Instead of responding to his anger, he tried something else.

“My master will hear your grievances, but he doesn’t take kindly to people damaging his possessions without his permission,” he said flatly, making sure not to meet the other man’s gaze. That was the only concession he was able to force himself to make, though. For all his culpability for many atrocities, the trials and persecution of muggleborns had been a lot more Yaxley’s and Travers’ passion, than something done by his order.

“Such a good slave,” the man replied mockingly. “But I bet Harry Potter won’t mind a few bruises – I’ve heard he’s given you more than a few himself. In fact,” he said, a thoughtful tone coming into his voice, “maybe he’d even be grateful to me for ridding him of his burden. I heard he was unable to kill you himself – maybe he’d be glad if _I_ do it…” That wand lowered slowly, appearing to Tom like the barrel of one of those machine guns other boys at the orphanage had exclaimed over in the rare occasions he’d actually been in their company for more than a few moments at a time. He saw his death in those angry, merciless eyes, and he refused to accept it.

If Harry wanted him to die…he didn’t know how he would react, but he knew that a life without his master’s presence wouldn’t be a life worth living. But this man? No. He refused to go quietly into the night, despite everything. He would far rather be Harry’s slave than a corpse on the floor, and especially at the wand of this man who had so much less reason to hate him than his master.

So no, he refused to let this wizard kill him. His mind raced, trying to work out ways out of the situation. He could call for Harry, probably should have done it at the beginning, but it would take time for his master to leave Hogwarts’ wards, and that was time he didn’t have. He couldn’t do anything physically – his position was such that it would take him far too long to gain any sort of advantage over the man, not to mention that his collar would react as soon as his intentions coalesced.

No, he could only see one possible option. The memory of him losing control over his magic in Harry’s sitting room resurfaced and his decision firmed up. Allowing the anger and fear he had been reining in to rip through him at full force, he stoked them, building his emotion into a blaze with his Occlumency. Then, when his grip on his magic weakened, when he felt the storm was almost out of control, he filled it with the desire to protect himself, to get away, to avoid drawing notice.

Releasing the magic, just as a spell started emerging from his assailant’s wand, his power exploded out of him in a wave of force which slammed the man against the opposite wall of the alleyway. Pain exploded inside of him, but he managed to fight through it long enough to reach up a shaking hand to the tag dangling from his collar. The last thing he was aware of as darkness rose to claim him, was the tight sensation of apparition.

XXX

“…Sir? Can you hear me, Sir?” a voice filtered into his consciousness, his slow surfacing from a black sea. He thought he made a noise, but couldn’t be sure. “I think he’s coming round,” that voice said again, the words not making much sense. Becoming aware of his hands, of an aching pain in his head, his legs, his chest, he blinked his eyes open – when had he shut them? – and saw a concerned looking woman hovering above him. “He’s awake! Albert, get some water.”

Tom was aware of some movement near him, but he was still feeling too groggy to really pay attention. Realising one hand was gripping the tag on his collar with a death-grip, he quickly released it, staring at the imprint the gold disk had left on his fingers. Trying to sit up, he flinched briefly as a hand touched his shoulder. It was removed quickly, but replaced by the voice of the woman.

“Sorry; I just think that you should stay lying down a bit longer, take it easy getting up.” The ache in his head having increased as soon as he had tried to get upright, he had to admit grudgingly that maybe she had a point. Relaxing backwards, he tried to take in his surroundings a bit more as his memory of the most recent events filtered back in. He was lying on a couch in a nicely appointed sitting room with clean, modern lines. It looked lived in, but not untidy. The woman who had been talking to him was middle-aged and slightly plump, but her face was kind. Despite that, though, there was something about her which made Tom think that she had a spine of steel and brooked no nonsense from those around.

He didn’t know what had happened. Had he apparated after throwing that wizard against a wall? What had happened to him? Where was his master – he must have been holding the tag for more than five seconds, surely? Would he be able to find Tom inside a house? Were these people muggles or magical? There were no overt signs of magic, but if they thought he was a muggle, there wouldn’t be. But if they were magical, wouldn’t they recognise his collar? Though, if they were muggle, wouldn’t they find it strange instead?

It was important to know – if they were muggles, he didn’t want to risk revealing the presence of magic and making the situation worse, but if they were magical, he needed to follow protocol for slaves outside their masters’ homes in order to avoid potentially having _another_ complaint made about him. Tom tried to sit up again, slowly. His head still pounded, and his stomach muscles protested their exertion, but he didn’t feel on the brink of passing out, so figured that was an achievement.

“How are you feeling?” the woman asked gently. Tom looked at her and then down at her hands, deciding to play things safe. Merlin knew what would be the fallout from him releasing control of his magic in a muggle area – no need to make it worse by angering this woman, should she be magical.

“Better, thank you, ma’am,” he replied, managing to add on the honorific due to the apprehension running through him. What would his master say about the whole thing? He hadn’t even wanted Tom to leave the house that morning – how would he react knowing that his slave had potentially managed to cause a huge incident in the short time he was out? Sure, Tom had faith that Harry would be at least slightly sympathetic to him given that the wizard had attacked _him_ , but still… Another thought occurred and made him draw in a horrified breath. What if he’d killed the other wizard?

It was possible – his magic had exploded out of him with great force, after all. Tom felt no guilt or remorse over the idea that he might have snuffed out the life of someone trying to kill him. No, the horror at the thought was purely because he knew, as he had known when contemplating murdering Richards, what the consequences of that becoming public were, and the effects they would have on his master. Guilt was added to the yawning chasm of fear inside him.

The appearance of a man in the doorway drew his attention. His eyes widened as he took in the figure – he was the second-largest man Tom had ever seen, and considering he was being compared against Rubeus Hagrid who was half-giant, that was saying something. He didn’t think this man had any giant blood in him, though if he was magical, he supposed it was possible, but he was still enormous. Not fat, although there was clearly some softness to his middle, but just…huge. Definitely well-over six foot tall, broad shouldered enough to almost not be able to fit through the door, muscles like rugby balls, he wasn’t someone who Tom would ever choose to tangle with physically, even if he were able to defend himself without blacking out. And then, incongruously, in his dinner-plate hands, he was holding a glass of water and a silvery bag of some sort. The woman next to him noticed his gaze.

“My husband, Albert,” she informed him with a smile. “He’s the one who brought you inside when we found you on the pavement just outside our front door.” It sounded like he had apparated then – he had certainly not been anywhere _near_ houses when he had been attacked.

“Did you find anyone else near me?” he asked, wanting to know if his magic had decided to bring his assailant with him, for some reason. The woman’s gaze sharpened.

“No, should there have been?” she asked, nonchalant on the surface, but something steely lurking underneath. Flicking her gaze up at her husband, she exchanged a look before giving some instructions.

“Give him the water and ice-pack, won’t you Albert? And then come join us.”

“Yes dear,” the man said teasingly, though Tom’s eyes narrowed as he caught a note in his voice, one that was intimately familiar to him, but not something he would have expected to hear in anyone not wearing a collar. Putting the thought to one side, he watched with some wariness as the man came closer and then accepted the water and ice-pack gratefully, Albert lumbering over to a seat which seemed especially large to accommodate his size and then sitting down with a creak. Tom gingerly pressed the cold bag against the lump forming on the side of his head, where the wizard had hit him. The woman turned back to Tom and looked expectantly at him. It took him a moment or two to remember that she had asked him a question, what with all the distractions.

“Not necessarily,” he said slowly. “I was attacked,” he admitted truthfully, “but managed to fend him off before he knocked me unconscious. I wasn’t sure if I had wounded him severely enough to keep him here.” She looked at him thoughtfully, and then exchanged another look with her husband.

“We didn’t see any blood, not on you or the pavement around, and there weren’t any other signs that someone else had been there. Would you like us to call the police so you can report the attack?” The police…not the Aurors. But was that perhaps because they still thought he was a muggle? Or were _they_ muggles? It was hard to know without saying or doing something potentially incriminating. Deciding to test the waters, he reached up and tapped his collar.

“My master will decide when he arrives,” he said, watching their reactions. They shot a quick glance at each other, but otherwise showed no reaction that would make it clear either way.

“If there has been criminal activity, your master is obliged to report it,” the woman commented with some concern. Tom shrugged, and then winced as the movement made both his stomach muscles and his head hurt.

“I will still wait for his direction,” he said firmly – getting the muggle police involved seemed like something that would make something already bad much, much worse.

“We can understand that,” Albert rumbled, his voice matching the rest of him. Tom nodded and silence fell for a moment before the woman broke it.

“Who is your master? Perhaps we know him.” Ah, now this would be a good test. Tom didn’t think that there was any witch or wizard in the UK who didn’t know his master’s name.

“My master is Harry Potter,” he said, watching them very closely. When they didn’t react beyond mild interest, his suspicions that they were muggles firmed up. But if that was the case, why hadn’t they reacted to his collar? To his use of ‘master’?

“I don’t think I’ve come across him in the community before…” the woman said musingly. “Have you, darling?” she asked her husband. He shook his head.

“Haven’t heard the name.” She looked back at Tom.

“And what’s your name, dear?”

“Tom,” he answered automatically, his mind turning various thoughts over in his mind. Could they be…? It would make sense, from the little he knew.

“Nice to meet you, Tom,” she replied with a smile. “I’m Madeleine Summers, but everyone calls me Maddy.” Tom dipped his head at her slightly in acknowledgement.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Maddy,” he replied charmingly, drawing on the same acting abilities which had made him the darling of Hogwarts. He was careful not to allow the slightly flirtatious hint into his voice which he would usually use with middle-aged women though, not wanting to get on the bad side of her hulking husband. At least, not while he was unable to use magic to defend himself…

Suddenly, he heard a sound which made his heart do funny things: it didn’t seem to be able to decide whether to rise into his mouth or sink into his stomach. Both relief and dread warred within him at the sound of his master’s voice calling his name.

“Tom!” Harry called again, not quite a shout, but not far off. He could hear both anger and fear in his master’s voice and he tensed at the sound, his eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before flicking to the other two people in the room.

“My master,” Tom admitted, seeing the Summers’ eyes on him. He hesitated for a moment, apprehension freezing him to the sofa on which he sat. It wasn’t that he feared _Harry_ …but he did fear Harry’s _reaction_. It wasn’t pain or punishment he feared most either – although pain was never fun, and punishment neither – it was more the knowledge that he’d done something which would reflect badly on his master, and he dreaded having to tell Harry that. Especially after everything he’d done recently. He hoped his master would consider that the provocation was sufficient for the response, but if he decided Tom’s response had been overkill…well, that was why he needed a master, wasn’t it? Historically, his decisions had not been…appropriate for the situation.

“Are you OK?” Madeleine asked, a careful note in her voice which didn’t quite cover the concern. He wondered why she might be concerned – it wasn’t like the emotion would do any good, even had he truly been afraid of his master.

“It’s fine,” Tom tried to reassure her, but had a feeling that his attempt at confidence was a bit thin and didn’t deceive either of them. He looked at the door. “I’d better go to him,” he murmured as he heard a third call and the collar around his neck started tugging at him. Standing up almost reluctantly, he put both the glass and the icepack down on the side table. The Summers regarded him, both of their gazes assessing, but in a different way.

“Would you like me to call him in here?” Albert asked, quickly glancing at his wife. She nodded and he turned back to Tom. “We could give you some privacy, if you prefer.” Tom hesitated, not wanting to make a decision for his master, but preferring to have their initial meeting somewhere more private than the front garden of the house.

“If you could suggest that to him…?” he asked, trailing off. Albert nodded at him and a smile touched the corners of his lips, transforming his face from a craggy, intimidating visage to something a lot more welcoming. Pushing himself to his feet, he lumbered out of the room. Tom resisted the pull of the collar, holding back his wince as it started punishing him for his disobedience. Madeleine stayed sitting for a few moments longer, looking at him with narrowed eyes, but then also stood, just as Harry came in.

At the first sight of his master, Tom slid to his knees and dropped his gaze to the floor. Although Tom felt a bit strange doing it with someone else in the room, someone who didn’t know what was expected of him as a slave, in a way she just faded into the distance – what mattered was Master and how Master felt about his behaviour. It wasn’t even a manipulation, or an attempt at avoiding a punishment by showing sufficient submission. No, he went to his knees because his master wanted him there in his presence; that was all that was important.

If he desired to punish Tom, that was his right, and his slave would submit willingly to it, as much as he would submit to any other order or request that his master made, even the unspoken ones. Tom had given Harry his mind, body, and soul because he deserved it, and more, because he’d _earned_ it. Everything else seemed petty in comparison to that.

XXX

Harry took in the scene before him with worried eyes, scanning his surroundings and trying to work out what had happened and where he could find Tom.

When Harry had felt the alert pulling at his magic, he had been confused at first about what it linked to. When the realisation had hit him, however, his heart had started pounding as fear ran through him. He doubted that Tom would have used the alert unless he really needed it, so Harry hadn’t wasted any time in excusing himself from the class – causing several of his class-mates to stare at him – and then had run all the way to Hogwarts’ gates, cursing the fact that it took what felt like all too long to do so. Reaching the gates, and the edge of Hogwarts’ wards, he had cast a notice-me-not charm on himself and then quickly apparated to the location that he had ‘felt’ when the charm had first tugged at his attention.

Good thing he had thought about the charm – he had popped into a busy street and even with it on, the noise of his apparition had caused several muggles to look around wildly. He hadn’t, however, been able to see his slave, and his heart had risen in his throat. It had started pounding even more wildly when he had realised that he could actually _feel_ Tom’s magic in the air.

Visions going through his head, each one worse than the previous, he had followed the feeling to a small alleyway. He had almost panicked when he had seen a body lying motionless on the alleyway floor. Upon turning the person over and realising it wasn’t Tom, he had breathed a sigh of relief that had been short lived: if this body wasn’t Tom, where _was_ his slave, and _what had happened_?

Breathing in a deep breath and letting it out, he attempted to pull on his ‘Auror’ hat, looking at the scene in the way that he was being taught by his mentors in the training programme.

Fact one: there was a man lying in an alleyway. Alive or dead? Harry cast a quick charm which simply determined life signs in a person – dead as a doornail. His cause of death was quickly apparent upon further inspection – the back of his head was half flattened as if it had impacted something with great force. Even magic couldn’t have done anything to save him.

Fact two: the man was clearly a wizard, if the wand near his right hand was any indication. However, there was no indication of him having cast any magic. 

Fact three: he recognised the area – somewhere on the route to the supermarket that Tom normally used for groceries, a chore he had chosen to do that morning.

Fact four: there was a strong sense of Tom’s magic hanging in the air. Harry frowned and tried to sense the intentions of it, something he’d been starting to do whenever he had magic thrown at him. Anger, fear, desperation, and a sense of…hiding? Well, it made sense that no one had come to investigate, then. He didn’t know how long it had been since the incident, surely more than a couple of minutes, but no one had raised an alarm about a dead body lying near a relatively busy road. But one thing was for sure – Tom had somehow cast magic. From the emotions hanging in the air, so similar to that time a few weeks ago, Harry couldn’t help but suspect he had lost control of his magic for some reason.

Fact five: everything in a small area had been pushed away as if by an explosion, and at the edge, there were the signature orange shopping bags of Sainsbury’s, and a number of items that looked like they were the kinds of things Tom might buy.

Fact six: his slave was _not here_.

All these facts were coalescing into suspicions in Harry’s mind; strong suspicions. Tom and this wizard had had an altercation of some sort, and given that Tom wasn’t able to do magic without punishment, and was unlikely to _choose_ to start something, Harry had to suspect that this wizard, whoever he was, was the instigator. However, whatever had happened, it was bad enough for Tom to lose control of his magic and Harry had to guess that that was what had caused the explosion which, if he was reading the scene correctly, had killed the man by slamming him up against the alley wall – there was a lovely patch of red on the brickwork at just above head height. Tom must have apparated away, but how he had done that without being sent unconscious for trying, Harry didn’t know. He supposed his slave could walk away, although dismissed that a moment later – if the last time he’d lost control was anything to judge by, he would have become unconscious quite quickly after, so he’d still be in the area in that case.

A possibility occurred that Tom had found an alternative way out of the collar, that he had been playing Harry…but no. The breakdown he had had just over three weeks ago had been all too real – he couldn’t have been faking that, and there hadn’t been an indications that he might have found a different way since. No, he had to still be wearing the collar, and have just found a way to do magic without permission. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

He should have been feeling angry, fearful even – the idea of the Dark Lord Voldemort having slipped his bonds in even the slightest should have sent him into a cold rage, especially when it had ended in the death of an innocent. But it didn’t, because he was almost certain that the Dark Lord Voldemort didn’t exist anymore, and the Tom who had saved his life, the Tom who had helped Draco come out of the prison of his mind, the Tom who had stopped himself from killing a man who was being _horrible_ to him, simply because it would reflect badly on Harry…the idea of that man having the ability to get out of a no doubt difficult situation was actually reassuring.

Though, Harry had to wonder what the provocation had been to make him lose control of his magic – since he’d been with Harry, it had only happened that one time, and Tom had been able to control himself with Richards despite the man abusing him, humiliating him, and trying to sexually assault him. Instead of anger or fear at Tom using magic without permission, Harry found himself fearful _for_ Tom, wondering what state he would find his slave in.

Nevertheless, before he could act on his desire to find Tom, he needed to sort this scene out. No good could come of this being discovered, and regardless of his desire to become an Auror, he really didn’t see the point in opening everyone to a big investigation unnecessarily. The fact was that no matter the provocation the wizard had offered, it would work against Tom since he was considered a possession, and like a biting dog, could face being ‘put down’ if the opposition successfully argued that he was dangerous.

Harry wouldn’t let that happen. If the man had family, he would make sure they weren’t hurt by his death, but he had no desire for this to become the potentially fatal circus it was guaranteed to be with an investigation. Not touching the body, he summoned items from the wizard’s pocket and held them levitated in front of him. Matthew Talbot, apparently, if the name on his driver’s licence was anything to go by, and probably either a muggleborn or a half-blood given the presence of that particular identity document.

Shrinking the body, he levitated it into a box he quickly conjured, along with the wizard’s wand. He did the same with the shopping scattered around, putting them in a different box. Both boxes then went into his pocket. Once more drawing on his experience of cleaning up after himself while on the run, Harry cast a purposefully weak cleaning charm on the wall, only removing the top couple of layers – including the blood. It left a spot which was slightly lighter than the rest of the grimy brickwork, but not something that would be terribly noticeable by anyone unless they were looking attentively. Then, summoning a wind, he obscured the suspiciously clear area caused – presumably – by a force-wave of magic. Finally, he cast a spell which had been invaluable for them while on the run – a magic signature clearing spell. It wasn’t strictly… _legal_ , but it was very useful when a Death Eater was on your trail.

With the dissipation of Tom’s lingering magic, Harry became very aware that people had started looking towards the area – evidently part of Tom’s intention had been for things to remain hidden. In fact, thinking about it, that was probably why no Aurors or Obliviators had come to investigate despite what had clearly been a massive explosion of uncontrolled magic in a muggle area….

Casting a final look around, Harry nodded in satisfaction – he didn’t think there was anything here which could either attract attention or, if an investigation happened regardless of his efforts, that anything was there which could lead them to his door. He’d have to find out from Tom exactly what had happened in order to close any other loose ends if necessary.

Now, quickly walking down the road to the next alleyway, he cast a privacy charm and then a tracking charm. The spell connected with the one he had put on the gold disk – hopefully – still attached to Tom’s collar and he twisted through space to arrive at his destination with a pop.

He was on a street which he recognised as not being very far from Grimmauld Place; in fact, it was only about a five minute walk away, although in the opposite direction to the shops. Harry frowned – had Tom tried to get home and failed? Had he walked here? Looking around, he couldn’t see any sign of his slave.

“Tom?” he called, quietly at first and then again at a louder volume. “Tom!” Pausing for a moment, he looked around; nothing was moving but the wind. Fear rose higher within him. “Tom!” Wondering once more whether Tom was even _conscious_ , and what he would do if the man didn’t come to his call, he shouted once more.

“Excuse me, sir,” a man called from the entrance to one of the houses lining this particular street. Harry turned to him, his eyebrows rising in surprise as he took in the man’s bulk. Hagrid was the first comparison that came to mind, and that was saying something! Nevertheless, he was rather too distracted with worry to give much thought to the figure of a random muggle.

“Yes?” he replied, rather shortly from the anger and fear running riot within him, no matter how much he attempted to rein them in.

“Are you Harry Potter?” he asked.

“Yes,” Harry replied warily. Either this man was one of his rabid fans…or he knew something about Tom. The man nodded, his face unreadable.

“We found your partner just outside the front door. He’s in the sitting room.” Harry’s heart leapt and he was halfway to the man before his mind had caught up with his body. Reaching the doorstop, he almost wanted to push past the man, anxious to see Tom, but the sheer bulk of the man and his not-too-friendly expression deterred him slightly.

After what seemed like a long moment and a far-too searching glance, the man stood aside and let him in. “First door on the left,” he instructed, his voice neutral. Harry paid little attention to him, already eagerly hurrying down the corridor and into the room that had been pointed out to him. He acknowledged the woman standing near a chair with a glance, but his attention was immediately captured by Tom sliding to his knees at his feet, never mind the other person present.

“Merlin Tom – you’re OK,” he sighed with relief, the fact that Tom was both conscious and mobile relieving a huge part of the fear that had been causing his muscles to be constantly tense. Whatever had happened…at least Tom was alright. “Come on, up you get,” he instructed and Tom obeyed without a word. Catching sight of a mark on the side of his face, Harry frowned and reached up to move his hair to one side gently. He drew in an abrupt breath at the livid red mark where Tom had clearly been hit by something. Or some _one._ “Are you hurt?” he asked sharply.

“Only bruises, master,” Tom murmured. Harry felt conflicting waves of both relief and anger run through him – relief that it wasn’t worse; anger because someone had _dared_ to touch Tom without his permission. Harry moved his hand to Tom’s chin and tilted it so Tom was facing him directly. Still, his slave kept his eyes downcast. He was only vaguely aware of the woman who had been in the room when he had entered slipping out and closing the door behind herself: his full focus was on his slave.

“Look at me,” Harry insisted and that red gaze flicked to his. He examined Tom’s eyes carefully – in them he could see guilt, fear, some pain, but no hint of a lie. Of course, the man was capable of being a very accomplished liar, but Harry liked to think that he’d got to know his slave well enough by now to know when he was being truthful, and when he was hiding things. Harry frowned. “Why are you scared?” Harry murmured in confusion. He was here – surely there was nothing to be afraid of? His slave looked away as much as he could with Harry’s hand still on his chin.

“I’m…concerned about your…about your reaction,” he admitted quietly. Harry’s confused frown deepened further. Afraid of his reaction? What had _happened_? He wanted to ask, but was very aware that they were not at home, and were unable to be as open as he’d like them to be.

“Come on, Tom. Let’s take this conversation home,” he suggested, letting go of Tom’s chin. The man bowed his head.

“As you wish, master,” he agreed submissively, guilt and fear still coating his words. Harry worried for his state of mind – first the whole thing with Richards; now this. Still, it would be better for them to be at home. Heading towards the door, he opened it. A moment later, the woman emerged from a room down the corridor.

“Thank you for taking care of my…partner,” Harry said quickly, not really wanting to stay and chat, but feeling like it should be said – from what he’d seen in the room, that’s exactly what they’d been doing.

“No problem at all,” the woman replied with a slight bit of warmth in her voice. “I told your partner that he ought to report the attack to the police, but he said he’d wait for you to decide. From what we saw, he really should do it – the person who left him unconscious on the pavement shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it,” she told him fiercely. Harry’s eyebrows rose, feeling slightly taken aback at her vehement tone.

“Don’t worry – I’ll ensure that everything is sorted,” he told her with a reassuring smile, the knowledge that the suspected assailant was currently in a box in his pocket an uncomfortable thought in his mind. She gave him a searching look and then nodded.

“See that you do,” she replied, a note of steel in her voice. Harry was once more surprised, but pushed his emotion to one side in favour of dealing with Tom.

“Anyway, we’ll be going. Thanks again,” he said, and then nodded at her before walking towards the exit, knowing Tom was following him. Outside the door, Harry looked back at his slave. “We’re actually only five minutes’ walk away from home, if you feel up to walking?”

“If you would like to walk, master, I’m perfectly capable of doing so,” Tom replied in a subdued tone. His frown reappearing, Harry decided not to challenge it right at that moment. Instead, he nodded and led the way through the streets.

XXX

As predicted, it was just about five minutes later when they arrived on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place. Opening the door, Harry stepped inside. Tom followed him docilely, his eyes still on his feet. Harry headed to the sitting room and sank into his favourite armchair by the fire. Tom slid to his knees in front of Harry and then didn’t move further, his head bowed.

“Alright then,” Harry started, his tone level, but hints of concern and urgency seeping into it despite his best efforts, no doubt. “From the top – what happened?” Tom couldn’t answer for a moment, not sure where to start.

“I forgot to take a scarf with me,” he said and then stopped, biting his lip as he considered how to continue. There was a pause for a moment as his master thought it over, as well as the implications of his collar being visible in the muggle world where no one would know what it meant.

“Did someone give you grief over it?” he asked, clearly wondering if that was what had happened. Tom shook his head.

“No. There was a moment in the shop…but it was fine. It was afterwards that it happened. I was walking with the bags, and someone, a wizard, noticed me. He pulled me into an alleyway, slammed me against the wall. I promise I didn’t react in a way that would shame you, master,” he hurried to reassure Harry, meeting his master’s eyes to show his sincerity. The man was hard to read, his eyes narrowed, his gaze assessing. “At least,” Tom admitted, his eyes falling once more, “not at that point.” He hesitated for a moment.

“Go on,” Master told him, his voice as unreadable as his gaze had been earlier.

“He hit me,” Tom offered. “Knocked me to the ground. I tried to diffuse the situation but…” he bit his lip – this would be where his master would either decide that his reaction was appropriate for the situation…or not. “He said he was going to kill me. I…I couldn’t let that happen.” Daring to peer upwards, he flinched as he saw the burning anger in his master’s gaze. “I’ll accept any punishment you give me, master,” he said hurriedly. “I know I disgraced you in public – again. I just…I didn’t know what to _do_.” There was a long pause as Harry clearly thought through what he had said. During that time, Tom kept waiting to feel the pain of _punire_ , or hear some other pronouncement of punishment. When his master spoke though, he instead sighed, the breath sounding very deliberate, as if he was breathing through his emotion.

“What _did_ you do?” he asked, his voice once more unreadable, except for the current of anger still present. Tom hesitated once more.

“I…Do you remember how I lost control of my magic a few weeks ago?” he asked, reluctant to bring up that particular day, but knowing he needed to. Master nodded. “When the man said he was going to kill me, I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I…deliberately lost control.”

“I see,” his master responded, his voice still guarded. Tom chanced a look up and saw that his expression matched his voice, all emotion hidden away. “What was the effect, and how did you end up in that couple’s house?” Tom looked back down.

“I fed my magic with the desire to protect myself, to escape from the situation, and to keep everything hidden. A shockwave of power exploded out from me and threw the wizard against the wall. As a result, my collar punished me and I blacked out. I think I must have apparated, though – the Summers apparently found me just outside their door. They carried me inside and looked after me until I woke up and you came.” Tom fell silent, not sure what else to say. It was bad enough as is, he knew.

“When did you call me with the disk?”

“After I used my magic,” Tom replied promptly.

“Why didn’t you use it as soon as you were attacked?” Tom hesitated for a moment and then continued in a small voice.

“I thought I could handle it. I thought I could diffuse the situation and didn’t want to pull you away from Hogwarts without any reason,” he admitted. There was a pause and then a hand moved towards his chin. Tom flinched slightly as it appeared suddenly in his vision, but he didn’t fight its direction when it tilted his chin upwards so he was looking into his master’s gaze. It was hard to hold his master’s eyes, though – the guilt running through him at the mistakes he had made was enough to choke him. “I’m sorry, master,” he said miserably.

“Why?” Why was Master asking him these questions? Wasn’t it obvious? But he had asked, so Tom would answer.

“I did everything wrong. I shouldn’t have gone out today; I should have called you earlier…” he bit his lip once more, but then forced himself to speak, knowing that hiding information would just make things worse. “I…I think I might have…killed the man. Accidentally.”

“You did,” Master replied neutrally. Tom’s eyes widened as he took in that information. “Is that why you were afraid of my reaction?” he asked neutrally, still not giving any clue as to his feelings beyond the light of anger still in his eyes. Tom nodded.

“I…I know you gave me that tag to call you when I needed help…and I know that I didn’t call you when I should have, and ultimately acted in a way that disgraced you in public. I’ll accept the punishment you see fit to give, master, but I cannot help my fear of it.” Master leaned forwards, his eyes intent.

“Why do you think I would punish you for defending yourself?” Tom paused once more, trying to order his words into something that might make sense. This thought process was new, and it was more difficult to explain than thoughts he had been thinking for decades.

“It’s not that I think you would punish me for defending myself,” he started slowly. “It’s more that…as a slave, I’m not _allowed_ to defend myself, and I did. In defending myself, I open you up to criticism and scrutiny, and _that_ is something you might want to punish me for. And in this situation, where I actually _killed_ someone…” he trailed off, thoughts running too fast through his mind to vocalise – images of his master being investigated; of the media attention; of its effects on his aspirations, his reputation…. Attempting to swallow the guilt which was coursing through him, he cast his eyes down once more, unable to bow his head because of the grip on his chin. “I’m sorry, master,” he choked out again, finally.

There were a few moments of silence before Master’s hand withdrew from his chin. Tom immediately dropped it, feeling like it was more appropriate to the gravity of the situation to do so. However, along with the continued fear and guilt, there was a sense of relief – finally, he had admitted his crimes; it was now in his master’s hands. The man sighed heavily.

“When I first apparated from Hogwarts, I ended up at the site of the incident. You can imagine how I felt finding a dead body lying in an alleyway, and not being able to find you.” Tom bit his lip, not having thought of _that_ possible scenario – his understanding of what his master must have thought in that moment sending more shame through him. “But from the scene around, I managed to work out most of what had happened. You know, I didn’t think for one moment that you had been the instigator – I’ve seen enough of you to know that, in your current situation, you avoid conflict as much as possible.” Master sighed. "In a way it's my fault," he admitted, and the surprise at hearing that caused Tom to lift his head. Meeting his master's eyes, he saw the anger still there, but also...guilt? With another shock of surprise, Tom realised that the anger seemed more directed at himself than at Tom.

"What do you mean?" Tom asked with confusion. "How could this be your fault?"

"That you didn't have any way of defending yourself...that you were out there at all was my fault. I could have refused your request of doing the groceries... I should have." Tom frowned.

"Master, you didn't know that this would happen - you couldn't have." Harry shrugged, a guilty look in his eyes.

"No," he admitted, "but I had a bad feeling about it, and after the number of times my hunches have paid off..."

"Then why didn't you? Refuse me, I mean,” Tom asked, his eyes narrowing – it was actually a question he’d been asking himself since earlier that morning. His master regarded him for a moment, his face once more unreadable, then he looked away and Tom saw the first true cracks in his composure since they’d walked in the door. He looked…conflicted. Torn. But torn over what?

“I don’t want to be that guy,” he said finally. Tom’s frown just deepened.

“…What guy?” he questioned, desiring clarification. Harry looked away, avoiding his eyes by staring into the fire. Tom wondered what was going on in his head. Was this the conversation he’d been thinking of prompting? Was this where he _finally_ found out why his master seemed so reluctant to actually be such? Harry sighed again, long and slow, and then spoke without looking away from the flames.

“You’re already a slave, Tom, and I have to be your master in so many things… When you said this morning that you were fine, that you wanted to go out…how could I say no? You’re an adult and it wasn’t anything that would cause a problem.” He snorted. “Or at least, it wasn’t something that _should_ have caused a problem. So I didn’t want to be that person who takes more than you are willing to give, completely unnecessarily. Or that person who manipulates you into _wanting_ to give it. As we’ve discussed before, circumstances have made it necessary to force certain amounts of compliance from you in various areas, especially concerning public behaviour, but this didn’t seem like one of those. So how could I refuse you?” Tom looked at him, eyes narrowed. It seemed like there was a fundamental misunderstanding here.

“I thought you enjoyed it when I submitted to you?”

“I did,” Harry exclaimed, looking back at him. “I do.” He hesitated and then breathed in and out heavily once more. “But that doesn’t mean it’s what you need…or what you want. And I can’t justify just… _taking_ it without your…consent.” Tom shook his head, more as a way of shaking his emotions free than as a negative response. Marshalling his courage, he tried to put his response into words that would truly convey his emotions.

“Master…. What if I _want_ you to make those decisions for me? What if I _want_ you to take that control over me, over my life?” He bit his lip momentarily and then continued. “What if I want you to _be_ my master, in truth as much as in this,” he said, reaching up to tap the collar. To his dismay, he saw Harry’s eyes and expression close off and retreat. “Master, please talk to me – why is this such a problem?” he almost begged, the feeling of rejection almost overwhelming him. It wasn’t _easy_ to ask these things, to say things that would have made his old self froth at the mouth in anger. It wasn’t _easy_ to make himself so vulnerable, to put his desires into words and bare his soul to another. Why couldn’t Harry accept this? When he had seemed to want it so much before?

“How can I accept it?” Harry demanded, almost angrily.

“Why can’t you?!” Tom snapped, his own emotions rising in the tension of the situation.

“Because it’s not _you_!” Harry exclaimed. He leant forwards, his eyes intense and anguished. “How can I ask you – no, how can I _accept_ your offer of submission when I don’t think it’s what you truly want? When it’s probably driven by fear from your experiences with that bastard Richards, and not motivated by true desire?!”

“So when I wanted to go to the shops, you refused to step in and take my decision from me, but when I choose to give you my submission, you refuse to accept it?!” Tom exclaimed angrily. “That’s hypocritical in the extreme, Harry,” he finished with a hard look at his master. Harry threw his hands up and pushed himself out of his chair with an almost violent motion. Tom worried for a moment that he would storm out to escape from the conversation, but no – he just started pacing.

“I know!” Harry he exclaimed, and then repeated it a moment later in a quieter voice. “I know.” He suddenly stopped pacing, stopping in front of the fire and stared at it, as if it held the answer. “But what can I do?” he asked a few moments later, turning back to Tom, but not moving back to sit in his chair. “I don’t want to take the decision from you…but what if you offer me your submission now, and withdraw it later? Or regret it, because you offered it out of desire to avoid the situation with Richards from happening again, but when you recover, you realise that it isn’t actually what you want?” He suddenly looked very vulnerable. “I don’t think…I don’t think I could bear it, to have had what I want _so much_ , only to have to give it up again.”

Finally, they were getting somewhere. Tom wasn’t surprised to hear his suspicions about his master’s thought processes being confirmed: they had got to know each other pretty well, one way or another. However, it seemed like Harry was missing some important context, which might help him resolve his moral qualms with Tom’s sincere desire to give him everything.

“Harry, master, this…it isn’t anything new. I…I’ve been hiding things from myself for a while, and it took both the proof that there was no way out of the collar and the experience with Auror Richards for me to admit them to myself. But the concepts, the _desire_ …those have been there for a while. Since Christmas, perhaps even. Maybe they have always been there without me realising.” He shrugged almost helplessly. “I trust you, more than I trust myself, honestly, and I want to give you myself because I know you’ll take better care of me than I have.” It was a rather confusing statement, so he hoped it made more sense to Harry than he worried it might, but it was heartfelt and left Tom feeling far too vulnerable. Honestly, if he hadn’t trusted Harry as much as he did, he wouldn’t have been able to force the words out – to bare his desires so much. Then Harry shook his head and Tom’s heart sank – was he being rejected again? Fortunately, his master’s next words proved that it wasn’t a rejection, as such; more like an inability to understand.

“I just…I hear you but…Tom, you were Hogwarts’ most brilliant student in the last few generations. You achieved fantastic grades at school, and then you turned around and became the most feared Dark Lord in living memory. I’m not saying you did _good_ things, but you certainly achieved _great_ things – how can you say that you want to submit to me? How can say you trust me more than you trust yourself? I haven’t done anything particularly great! We said it not long ago – my greatest asset is _luck_! I’m just _Harry_ , I’m-“ Tom refused to hear any more and interrupted his master.

“Master, if you finish that sentence with ‘nothing special’, I swear I will slap you, and damn the collar,” Tom threatened seriously. Harry looked at him with wide eyes, but didn’t speak. Tom took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m intelligent. Yes, I’m powerful. But what did it ever do for me? Where did my decisions ever take me? I was so afraid of dying I _ripped my soul to shreds_ ,” he emphasised, staring his master deep in the eyes, communicating his sincerity. “I sent myself spiralling down the path to insanity, losing everything that made me, _me_. The Tom Riddle I used to be would have been absolutely horrified at what I became – mad, driven by emotion, _weak_. _I’m_ horrified at what I became, now that I’ve gained some distance from it and realise what I lost.

“And that’s not the only bad decision I made. It would take too long to list them all, but I drove away anyone who could have pulled me back from the brink; I made slaves out of my followers; I permitted, no, _promoted_ a hypocritical campaign which did untold damage to a world which I had only ever desired to be a part of. Look at what happened today! I killed someone else, this time not even intending to do so! I have been an absolutely _terrible_ decision maker, Harry, and the only things my intelligence and power have ever done for me was to make my decisions _more consequential_.” By the end of it, Tom was panting, his muscles tense, his face flushed with heat. No doubt his eyes were also flashing with his passion. Just taking a few breaths to regain a little composure, he continued in a quieter tone.

“You…you came from a background not all that dissimilar to mine, but somehow, you managed to make good choices. You somehow gained a stubborn grip on morality that simultaneously frustrates me and makes me respect you – the necessity of this conversation is a case in point. Any other person would have just enjoyed their power over me, would have demanded my submission in _everything_ , the way Richards did. You didn’t. You set necessary boundaries, reasonable ones, and kept me to them, but you didn’t take anything from me that wasn’t necessary. You defended me, something no one else has ever done. You gave me space to be me; to be a me that I had _never_ been able to be. And, once I got past my pride, my fear…I realised that I-“

Tom cut himself off, about to reveal the realisation he had come to, lying next to Harry in bed, but fearing that that would be too much, too fast. “I realised that I respected you as an authority figure; that I _trusted_ you. Do you know how many people I have trusted in my life? Truly trusted?” Harry shook his head mutely, his eyes still wide. “None! Except for you. Not even myself, truly,” Tom admitted, his emphatic voice at the beginning of speaking trailing away into a more thoughtful murmur at the end. Because it was true – he hadn’t trusted that he was ever enough. Why else would he have worn a mask every moment of the day since he learnt how to create one? Why else would he have been happy when splitting his soul for the horcrux noticeably took away a part of himself? “So,” he continued, feeling uncertain of what else to say. He’d poured his heart out and all he could hope was that it would be enough.

“So, that’s what I’ve realised. I want your guidance, your direction, not because I’ve been…traumatised by Richards, or whatever you think happened – I was being honest when I said that the effects he had on me were only skin deep – but because I’ve truly realised that I trust you and your decisions a lot more than my own. I trust _you_. Please…” he trailed off, mustering his courage once more – he’d gone this far; what was one more step? Closing his eyes – it was easier that way – he made a final plea. “Please, don’t reject me.” Feeling heat going to his cheeks at the plaintive note in his voice, he kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see either pity or revulsion on his master’s face. There was a pause, a long pause, and then he heard movement and a hand cupped his cheek gently.

“Tom, look at me,” Harry ordered gently, and he obeyed. That emerald gaze was intense, and meeting it felt like looking into the sun. He couldn’t identify all the emotions swimming in them, but he could see wonder, fear, desire, hesitancy… That someone could feel so many sensations at once seemed impossible, but there was the evidence. What he didn’t see, however, was pity or rejection, and the lack of those made something tight within his chest finally release.

XXX

“I…You…” Harry was lost for words, looking away for a moment before his gaze flashed back to capture Tom’s fiery one once more. “I know that can’t have been…easy for you, but thank you for telling me all that.” He fell silent again, not sure what else he could, _should_ say. He was starting to doubt his thoughts that morning which had been so convinced of how Tom’s avowals of submission were purely based on his experiences with Richards. Although he still felt some lingering concern, most of him was starting to accept that maybe, maybe Tom was actually coming from a place of self-understanding, rather than fear – he had simply been too eloquent for that to be the case. That Tom could feel that way…Harry felt like he was swimming, that the world had turned upside down. He needed time to process, definitely. But there was still one thing that was bothering him, one big thing. “It’s just…I know you say you trust me, but…” he threw up his hands again, moving to thump back into his armchair and running a frustrated hand over his face and through his hair.

“I just don’t understand it,” he said, almost plaintively. Seeing Tom about to speak, he held up his hand to stop him. “I know why you say you trust me, but…I don’t understand why I _want_ your submission in the first place; shouldn’t the fact that I want it be a reason _not_ to trust me?” He sighed, rubbing his face again in the hope that his motion might make his words easier to form, to organise. Opening his eyes once more and looking at his slave, he saw Tom gazing at him thoughtfully.

“Master…why are you afraid of your desires?” he asked. Harry started, his eyes widening in surprise because wasn’t that just the question that he had been unable to answer; the question he hadn’t realised was even being asked? It was true – he _was_ afraid of his desires. He was scared of how much he enjoyed seeing Tom kneel, how much he enjoyed controlling Tom’s life. He was _terrified_ of the dark beast within him that enjoyed seeing Tom struggle; that relished his humiliation. But why?

“Because I fear what they imply about me,” he said slowly, speaking as soon as the realisation came to him.

“And what is that?” Tom pressed. Despite their positions – Tom kneeling, Harry sitting above him – Harry couldn’t help but feel like a rabbit being pursued by a fox. This time, however, he didn’t feel like Tom was asking for his own enjoyment – he was pushing so that Harry could better understand himself, so that they could finally resolve this thing which had been hanging between them for _months_. So instead of snapping, instead of leaving or ordering Tom to leave…Harry thought about it.

“I…I fear that my desire to control you, my enjoyment of your submission…it says that I’m…messed up. That my childhood left the seeds of an abuser in me; that I have allowed those seeds to sprout and grow.” Tom nodded slowly, but Harry didn’t feel it was in agreement with what he had said, more just an acknowledgement that he had spoken.

“We’re not alone, you know,” he said finally, and the seeming non-sequitur threw Harry off balance.

“What do you mean?” he asked in his confusion.

“In desiring dominance, in your case, or submission in mine. There are others out there who desire it too; people who live it as a lifestyle. I think you’ve heard of BDSM before, haven’t you?” Harry shrugged, aware of a blush coming to his cheeks as it had months ago when that woman had approached him in the shop. Come to think of it – wasn’t she the same woman who he’d met earlier that day? It was such a long time between the two encounters…but he had had a feeling that she had looked vaguely familiar, though his concern about Tom had overridden any other thoughts of the time.

“Dorm room talk; that’s all.” Tom nodded again.

“I can imagine,” he replied, a dry note in his voice. “I can’t say I’m completely familiar with it either, but… When I was travelling the world, at one point I stayed with a couple in Germany. The man had agreed to teach me some spells I desired to learn, and offered his house for the duration of my…apprenticeship, I suppose you could say, although he wasn’t a Master. Not a traditional one, that is.” He smiled wryly. “However, he and his partner…they engaged in a rather interesting relationship. He commanded and she obeyed, happily so. She called him master, and he called her _Hase_. At one point I was interested in whether he had used some sort of spell to bind her to him.” Harry thought he could probably guess _why_ the young dark lord had been interested in _that_ sort of spell. “However, upon questioning, I discovered that it was entirely voluntary on both their parts; that they both derived pleasure from their roles: she from submitting to him; he from controlling and caring for her.” Tom shrugged. “At that point I wasn’t interested in digging any further, but I did manage to pick up the fact that they were part of a local community who all enjoyed similar things. Perhaps we could get in touch with someone who you could talk with about all of this?”

Harry thought about it. He was reticent to speak to other people about what went on between him and Tom – experience had taught him that the more people knew, the more weapons they had to cause hurt. In this situation, though… He would have to think more about it; more about everything they had discussed.

“I need to think about it,” he said, once more rubbing a hand across his face. “We’ve…it’s been a _long_ morning,” he said with feeling.

“Yes, master,” Tom agreed, touching a hand to the side of his face and wincing. Harry felt remorse go through him.

“Merlin, I forgot your bruises again!” Why did he keep doing this? Having a big discussion before dealing with his slave’s injuries? Tom trusted him, apparently – Harry didn’t understand why: he wouldn’t trust himself with anything more dependent than an owl, and this situation was a case in point. “Do you need more bruise balm? Or do you have enough left from this weekend? And do you have any other injuries that need dealing with?” Tom thought for a moment.

“I’ve probably got enough,” he replied musingly. “And no – it’s just a few bruises. I’ll be fine after a couple of applications of bruise balm.” Harry observed him through narrowed eyes for a moment.

“Alright, well if you need any more, or any pain relief, make sure you ask,” he instructed sternly.

“I will,” Tom replied, a warm note in his eyes and voice. Then he hesitated, dropping his gaze down briefly, before meeting Harry’s once again. “Master…my punishment?” he asked tentatively as if not sure whether to raise it, or perhaps not _wanting_ to raise it, but feeling he should.

“For…what, exactly?” Harry asked, still not clear on that point. Tom shrugged helplessly.

“Master, it’s up to you. As I said, I don’t trust my decision-making anymore. If you feel like I made the wrong decision, as I have done in the past, then it is your right to correct me.” Harry thought about it, leaving aside the whole ‘right to correct’ thing which he was still not convinced of. Had Tom actually made the wrong decision at any point?

“Honestly?” Harry started looking at his kneeling slave. “I don’t see any other way you could have reacted, apart from to call me earlier. However, even then…I may not have got there in time to stop him from attempting to kill you, so the end result would have been the same. You defended yourself with the means you had at your disposal, and Merlin knows I’m glad you didn’t allow him to kill you!” Tom stared up at him, his expression disbelieving.

“But…I _killed_ someone.”

“By accident, from the sounds of it,” Harry responded. There was a short pause.

“You believe that my intentions were not homicidal?” Once more, Tom sounded like he couldn’t believe what Harry was saying.

“Were you lying earlier?” Harry asked, not really concerned. Though, that made him wonder when exactly – and why – he had started being so trusting of the man who had been an accomplished liar at eleven.

“No!” Tom returned immediately, no question in his answer. Harry smiled: that was why.

“I didn’t think you were. So, yes you killed someone, but you attempted to resolve the situation without conflict first, and only used violence when it was the only option. Like I said – I’m at least partially to blame for not giving you the tools to defend yourself in a less violent way. Frankly, I hadn’t thought of the possibility of you running into another wizard while out grocery shopping, but I should have.” He was turning things over in his mind about how to resolve that. “So no, I don’t think you deserve punishment for this particular incident.”

“But master, you’re going to be in trouble with the Aurors, with Ministry…with the public, when this gets out. And it’s my fault…” He sounded guilty. If someone had told him eight months ago that his new slave would become more concerned about his reputation than him, he would have laughed and checked them for a confounding hex. As it was…

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Harry told him with a shrug. “Like I said, I got to the crime scene before I managed to find you – I cleared it up. Your magic had done a decent job at hiding the incident from both magical and muggle detection, so I don’t suppose anyone will investigate further. As for the body, I’ve stored it away and will dispose of it in some appropriate fashion. So like I say, I don’t feel like you deserve any punishment for what happened today – it happened; we dealt with it. Let’s move on.” Tom was staring at him, almost open-mouthed; in Tom Riddle, that was shown by a simple looseness in the corners of his mouth.

“When did you become so proficient at covering up a crime?” he asked, a mixture of surprise, amusement, and discomfort in his voice. Harry shrugged again.

“When Snatchers and Death Eaters are on your tail, it’s rather important to learn how to scrub a scene clean,” he commented wryly. Tom looked down, guilt visible in his expression. Harry felt the strangest urge to tell him that it was OK – it wasn’t OK: regardless of Tom being a different person now, he had been that person then and the effects were still felt today by many. Discomforted, Harry moved on to what he had been ruminating over. 

It was true that Tom was surprisingly vulnerable on his own: he was only allowed to use magic inside the house, or in Harry’s defence. When he was on his own, he couldn’t do much to defend himself – it was somewhat of a miracle that he’d been able to direct his accidental magic as much as he had; that might not always be possible. Even a physical defence would be unlikely to succeed as the collar would incapacitate him the moment he tried to attack someone.

“Thinking about your vulnerability to attack when you’re out on your own…What if I offer you the possibility of using magic in your own defence?” Harry asked slowly. Tom’s eyes opened wide and he stared up at Harry.

“Would you be able to do that? What about the Ministry? The Minister?” Harry shrugged – at the moment Kingsley’s opinion was worth very little to Harry, and the Ministry had never been particularly impactful on his decisions.

“It would have to be under conditions, of course,” he clarified. “You would only be able to use it when you believe there is no other way of either defusing or leaving the situation without experiencing either mental or physical injury, and it would have to be something very subtle that could not be identified as magic. That way, I won’t have to get the Obliviators involved and open us up to difficult questions but… Yes. It should be possible. Would that help?” Tom just stared at him for a while longer before he looked away, thinking about it.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Yes, I think that would help.” Harry nodded.

“Good,” he said with a smile, glad that that seemed easy enough to deal with. “Then you are allowed to use magic outside the house and my presence if those conditions are met.”

“Thank you, master,” Tom acknowledged with gratitude in his eyes and in his voice. Then he hesitated. “When I was attacked, I think I dropped the groceries…” Harry pulled the box out of his pocket.

“You did, but I shrunk them and put them in this box. I didn’t check their state, though. I can’t imagine falling on the floor and then being blasted by your magic has done them any good,” he remarked wryly. Tom shot him a look that showed his agreement and accepted the box. “If there’s anything that needs replacing, tell me and I’ll go out this afternoon and get it.” Tom frowned.

“I thought you were at Hogwarts today?” Harry grimaced.

“I’m supposed to be,” he admitted, “but it’s OK if I miss today – the theory is most important for me anyway, and that’s in the morning. I’m perfectly fine with the practicals at this point, so there’s not much point in me going.” Tom’s frown deepened.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your learning, master,” he said, a note of guilt in his voice. Harry shook his head abruptly.

“Don’t be,” he told his slave, his tone firm. “I’d far rather know about any problems than you don’t tell me in some misguided effort to spare me or something.” Honestly, if Tom did trust Harry’s leadership, Harry needed to know everything in order to make the right decisions: missing information would lead to bad decisions – he knew that all too well from his experiences during the war. “Besides, I’m pretty much ready, anyway. Today’s session and next week’s are all about revision, rather than learning anything new.”

“Can I help you with any of it?” Tom asked. Harry looked at him for a moment, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he answered finally. “Yes, I think you could. Would you be willing to?” Tom shot him a look as if to question his intelligence in even needing to ask the question.

“Of course, master. I’m at your service whenever you desire me to be.” As cliché as those words should have sounded, when Tom spoke them, they rang with sincerity. It made Harry feel uncomfortable, the tone stirring those thoughts which he had pushed aside for later contemplation. Unwilling to go into them at this point, he cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“Alright, good. Now, I know it’s a bit early, but shall we have lunch?” Tom looked at him for a moment and then shrugged.

“I can prepare something for us, if you wish,” he offered.

“Please,” Harry responded. His slave nodded and then stood. At the doorway he paused, cast Harry an unreadable look and appeared on the brink of saying something. Then, before it emerged, he turned and vanished into the darkness of the corridor.

XXX

Pulling items out of the fridge, Tom got to work on preparing the salad: washing the various fresh items; checking the green leaves to make sure they were all in decent condition and disposing of the ones that weren’t; mixing the dressing. He’d been spending the whole of his time putting away the salvageable groceries and preparing lunch thinking about the conversation they’d been having earlier. From his contemplations, he had drawn two conclusions. First, that the real barrier to them having a fulfilling relationship for both of them seemed to be Harry’s fear of himself. Second, that speaking to others who engaged in their sort of relationship would probably be beneficial. He felt like he couldn’t do much about the first – it was something Harry would have to deal with himself. The second, however….

Being at the Summers’ house had been interesting. It wasn’t that they’d said anything overt, and Tom had certainly not looked in either of their minds – he would have been prevented by the collar if he’d tried – but there was something about them…something about how they interacted with each other that sent his mind back to the time he’d spent with the Meyers. And if his suspicions were true, maybe they could help his master with his first problem. It was certainly to Tom’s advantage – not only had he realised how much he _wanted_ that kind of relationship with his master, but knowing that Harry was so torn was sending conflicting emotions through Tom himself in sympathy.

It was strange: Tom had never been known for being particularly concerned about others’ emotions except where they directly impacted him, and even then he only paid attention long enough to work out whether they would be beneficial or disadvantageous to him and his aims, and act accordingly. Discounting how he would have reacted as Voldemort – since he had got to the point where he wished he could forget about that period of his life entirely – he considered how he would have felt as Tom Riddle.

He would have seen it as weakness, he decided. He would have seen an opportunity to sway Harry to his desires, using his conflict and worries to twist him into doing what Tom wanted. He would have seen Harry’s concern about turning into a monster as the sign of a weak will, of a feeble spirit. He wouldn’t have respected someone like that. Perhaps that was the major difference between him and the boy he had been: what he had once seen as weakness, he now saw as strength.

The change had resulted from his experiences of where undoubted confidence had taken him – his arrogance in always believing that he was right, that he was justified had taken him to the point he had described to Harry earlier: to someone, some _thing_ in which he couldn’t even recognise himself. Tom-the-boy had been just that – a boy. Tom could see, with hindsight, some of the damage the orphanage had done – it had taught him that he could only rely on himself; that no other state was desirable, _permissible_. His experience at Hogwarts had been no different – he had learnt that it was as much a dog-eat-dog world as the orphanage had ever been, perhaps more, and he had adapted. He had enjoyed the regard of others, once he had gained it, while always holding those who looked at him with stars in their eyes with some contempt for their inability to see through his act.

Because it _had_ been an act, all of it. He had deceived his teachers, the other students…himself. The latter was one reason why he wondered whether his desires to submit to the leading of another had in fact always been there, but the lack of anyone worthy of his submission had caused him to bury them so deeply even _he_ hadn’t realised they existed. It would explain why he had pushed so far in the opposite direction, but had never found it sufficient. He had never found peace; he had always wanted more, but on gaining _more_ , he had still not been satisfied. Now, finally, he had had a taste of peace, the drive which had always burned like fire in him now seemed…not satisfied, exactly, but it smouldered at a low level – a warm glow rather than an all-consuming blaze.

And now he’d finally tasted peace, after all the tumultuous years, after everything he had done…was it strange that he grabbed it with both hands? He realised that he’d probably been too fervent with Harry – looking back he realised that maybe he should have taken more time over revealing his desires to his master: hearing Harry’s fears about Tom’s desire to submit being purely down to Richards made it all too clear to Tom that he had messed up once more. He should have done it a bit at a time, easing them both into it – long term gain, short term pain was better, after all. Ruefully Tom reflected that easing into things wasn’t really in his nature.

Whenever he’d decided to do something, he’d always gone for it full force. He’d decided to be the best student Hogwarts had ever seen, and he’d achieved that – in living memory, at least. He’d wanted to defeat death, and he’d managed that, although the means by which he had done so had been…unadvisable, to say the least. He’d wanted to gain power, and he had certainly done so, though again, the actual reality of what had happened had left more than a bad taste in his mouth. So was it any surprise that once again, he’d failed to do something in half-measures and it went wrong?

Sighing at his own thoughts, Tom set the salad with its dressing on the table, completing the items needed for a cold lunch – bread, a mixture of cheeses and meats, butter and some fruit served to offer a selection of options which could be different each time it was laid. He hesitated, looking towards the door and then sighed once more. Leaving the kitchen, he walked towards the sitting room.

“Master?” he said from the doorway, pausing just before crossing the threshold of the room as he was wont – it wasn’t like he minded kneeling for his master anymore; it was just that it was annoying to do so for such a short conversation. Harry looked up from whatever he was looking at on his desk.

“Yes?”

“Lunch is ready.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied slightly distractedly. “I’ll be through in just a moment.” Tom nodded and went back to the kitchen, beginning to serve himself. Sure enough, Harry entered the kitchen a few minutes later. “This looks good,” he complimented, taking bits of everything onto his plate.

“Thank you, master,” Tom replied feeling warmth go through him at the knowledge that he had pleased his master. Now that he had accepted his own emotions, his own desires, he found that knowing whether Harry was pleased or displeased had a much greater effect on him than it had before: when he had first arrived, his sole concern had been in doing the minimum of what was required in order to not be punished by the collar; now, he actually _wanted_ to know that Harry was happy with his efforts and the very thought that he might be displeased made a flicker of fear go through him. Or maybe it wasn’t fear, maybe it was shame – the knowledge that his master might find him displeasing in some way sending self-loathing through him. His contemplations were interrupted by Harry’s voice, and he happily allowed it to distract him, his thoughts not being particularly pleasant to begin with.

“How were the groceries? Is there anything you need me to get this afternoon?” Tom considered the question.

“Most of it was OK, master. The only things that were a complete loss were the eggs – which had all broken – the tomatoes which got a bit too crushed to use, and most of the salad leaves, for the same reason. I used the ones which were fine for today’s lunch, but that was pretty much it for this bag.”

“Alright,” Harry acknowledged. “I’ll go out later and replace those then.” Tom hesitated for a moment, but then decided that there was surely no harm in asking.

“Master…may I go out tomorrow instead?” Harry eyed him.

“After today?” he questioned dubiously. Tom shrugged slightly.

“If you don’t think it’s a good idea, I will submit to your decision, but it’s a different situation now. You’ve given me permission to use magic in an emergency, so I don’t foresee the same events happening again, and certainly not the same final events.” He hesitated for another moment and then continued, his eyes lowering to the table top. “I…I _dislike_ the idea that my actions today interrupted your learning; I would hate for that to happen again, which would be the case if you had to go out shopping.” Dislike was putting it mildly: the feeling that Tom felt roiling inside him at the knowledge that his actions had been both displeasing and damaging to his master – in terms of his goals and his reputation – was not one that he ever wanted to feel again. There had been a reason he’d actually been _asking_ for a punishment. As much as he didn’t enjoy being punished, and feared what his master could do to him as one, there was still a part of him that desired it for its promised relief from his guilt and disgust in himself. His master’s genuine assessment of the situation not needing correction had had the same effect, fortunately.

He was aware of his master looking at him steadily and lifted his eyes to meet Harry’s emerald gaze. It was searching, curious.

“Is that the only reason you want to go out?” Tom’s eyes flicked down again, consternation rising in him. No, it wasn’t…but he didn’t really want to explain his other reason for fear that his master would forbid him from pursuing it, as well as a lingering doubt that maybe he was wrong. Instead, he decided to misdirect.

“No – I was also thinking that…that it might stop me feeling a bit…nervous about going out, if I see the scene of where it happened, while knowing that it won’t happen again.”

“Ah,” replied Harry with understanding. “A case of getting back on the horse, is it?”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied honestly – it was certainly a real reason for him wanting to leave the house…it just wasn’t the more important one. Guilt rolled inside him, almost making him feel sick at the sensation, knowledge that he was intentionally deceiving his master after promising him his submission…it felt wrong. But this was a potentially perfect opportunity to meet others in the kind of lifestyle Tom felt they both wanted, and there was no guarantee that Harry would agree to it in other circumstances. Plus, Tom didn’t know for certain that his suspicions were true, and didn’t want to waste his master’s time if they weren’t. A little voice inside him also murmured that he didn’t want to risk being proved wrong, but he pushed that away. About to open his mouth and confess his other reason, he was interrupted by his master.

“Alright, I’ll take you out of the wards tomorrow morning before I go to the Ministry. Make sure you’re ready in time.”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied, his opportunity to confess lost, though the guilt still ran through him, making him lose his appetite. Fortunately, Harry spoke again a few moments later, distracting him from his feelings and food.

“Tom, you remember that you said Richards is connected in some way to an illegal brothel? Can you give me more details on that?”

“Of course, master,” Tom answered, aware of a note of eagerness in his voice – if Harry was asking him about it, that probably meant he was planning on doing something about the man, and Tom was fully behind anything that would cause Richards to suffer. Thinking back to the letter, he prodded the memory of viewing it so that he could almost see it once more in his mind’s eye, as clear as when it had been in front of him. “It was a letter of blackmail, accompanied by a copy of a photo. Apparently the brothel owner was threatening to send the rather…explicit photo of him with an underage prostitute to the Aurors, thereby destroying his career, unless he helped them. It wasn’t clear exactly what they were asking him to do, but they seemed to be insinuating that they wanted him to destroy some evidence or otherwise interfere in a current case, in return for forgiving him a portion of his debt to them. And not having his photo sent to the Aurors, of course. From the contents, I would guess that he had been visiting the brothel under a disguise of some sort, but that he had slipped up at some point, and they seized the opportunity for some blackmail.” Harry nodded slowly.

“So potentially he could be indicted on at least three counts – engaging in statutory rape, helping cover up the existence of an illegal brothel, and obstruction of justice.” Tom inclined his head.

“So it seems, though without the letter as proof, and with my testimony being inadmissible for multiple reasons, I suspect that it will be difficult to get him on all of those counts if you decide to go the legal route.” Harry seemed to think about it.

“Honestly, I think it would be best to go the legal route – at first, at least. If he seems to escape these charges scott-free, then we can see about getting him in other ways, but…it seems rather more satisfying to see him having his career, his life ruined as a result of his own bad decisions. Since we can’t get him on what he did to you, we’ll have to settle for this, I think. Are you OK with that?”

Tom wanted to say that this illustrated _exactly_ what he had been trying to explain earlier – his first reaction, had he been free, would have been to go over to Richards’ house, torture him until he was nothing more than a shell, and then finally allow him the mercy of death when he had got bored of the man’s pitiful screams. But he could see how that would just end up making the man a martyr, and it wouldn’t help the children at the brothel, which is why he said that he trusted Harry’s ability to make _reasonable_ decisions over his own.

However, given their conversation earlier and Tom’s rueful acknowledgement of how his own desire to once more grasp something with both hands had caused Harry’s concerns about him being traumatised by Richards, he decided not to go with his first reaction.

“Yes master, I’d be fine with that,” he offered instead. Harry nodded.

“Alright. Give me all the details you can remember about the brothel, then.”

XXX

It was almost eleven pm. Harry was walking down Knockturn Alley in his invisibility cloak. He’d silenced himself as well as using as many other concealment spells that he could think of – he did _not_ want to be discovered in his current actions. Tom was at home, but Harry hadn’t told him exactly where he was going, only that he was going out. Given their discussion at lunchtime, however, he suspected that the intelligent man would have probably guessed at least his destination, if not his whole purpose.

Getting to the small turning between two buildings that he wouldn’t have even seen had Tom not given him directions, he turned down onto Horizon Alley, the first time he’d ever visited it. Suddenly, it became hard to walk without bumping into someone – the alley was narrow, and it was _packed_. A mixture of dark-clothed people with hidden features moved among scantily clad men and women standing outside entranceways in a variety of poses, some more alluring than others.

Checking to make sure he was disillusioned even under the cloak, he cast a summoning charm at the top of a building and held on tightly to his wand as he was pulled towards it. Landing heavily on the roof, he made his way down the alley, a lot more slowly, but more safely. It was difficult to find the exact spot – it wasn’t exactly possible to see many numbers on the doors from here – but he eventually saw the sign: Pauline’s Pleasure Palace. Given the number of alliterative names he’d seen – Sensual Secrets, Olive’s Orgasms, and others of the sort – he wondered whether the Wizarding world thought calling things by words that all started with the same letter was somehow extra sexy.

Casting a feather-light charm on himself, he floated down, almost losing his cloak as it _didn’t_ have the charm on it and seemed to prefer acting like a parachute anyway. Waiting for someone to enter, he slipped in through the doorway, clearing it just before the door closed behind him.

It looked like…well, he hadn’t really known what to expect from an under-age brothel, or a brothel full-stop, but this wasn’t it. It looked more like a bar, a bar with a lot of scantily-clad men and women scattered about. He saw a couple of people sitting at the bar itself, drinking some alcohol, and even more approaching the people Harry had to assume were the prostitutes. They seemed to have a pattern – a person would approach the prostitute, have a quick discussion, maybe a quick grope, and then they would either walk away or, more often, follow the prostitute out of the room.

It was efficient, Harry had to admit, although the whole thing left him feeling a bit uncomfortable. However, adult men and women selling their bodies were not what he’d come here to investigate. For all that it made him uncomfortable, it wasn’t a crime. Tom had said that this brothel appeared to be selling underage children based on the letter he’d found on Richards’ desk. When he had recounted the letter over lunch, upon Harry’s prompting, Harry had to admit that it definitely sounded plausible. But he hadn’t been sure, and that was why he was here tonight.

He wanted Richards to go down, somehow. And he also wanted to save children from illegal exploitation that was worse than anything the Dursleys had done to him. If he could manage those two aims at once? Even better. But so far, he hadn’t seen anything particularly untoward. Taking a seat on a wooden chair to one side of the room, he kept a careful watch on all the action.

For a while it seemed to be all the same – a person would walk in, they’d go to the bar or they’d approach a prostitute, they’d go with the prostitute to another room. Rinse and repeat. It was past midnight, when he had started to wonder whether maybe Richards was just interested in legal prostitutes, that he noticed a strange pattern.

There was a constant movement of people in the room – people leaving, people arriving. Similarly, the prostitutes continually changed with those who had clearly finished with a customer returning to the main room, and those who had just gone with a client staying away for a while. One prostitute, however, didn’t follow that pattern. Sure, she was approached by a potential client in exactly the same way, and then she disappeared from the room with them as everyone else did. The difference, however, was that she actually returned more quickly. A _lot_ more quickly. In the time that he’d been there, he’d only seen the same prostitutes come back a couple of times, indicating that the average session time was perhaps twenty minutes to half an hour. _This_ woman took perhaps five minutes. Every time.

Carefully avoiding the various people moving around, Harry made his way to the woman and hung around her for a while until someone else came. When the person approached, they muttered a phrase which meant little to Harry, but it was nonsensical enough to be a pass phrase or something. And that seemed to be exactly what it was – upon hearing it, the woman gave the person a knowing smile and then led them (and Harry) out of the room. They approached a door and, for a moment, Harry wondered whether he’d been wrong in noticing something strange. Maybe this woman just gave really quick blowjobs or something. However, when she opened the door to reveal a corridor with a number of other doors off it, he felt a surge of anticipation in his stomach.

Walking in, that anticipation turned to nausea as he realised that each of the doors had a clear panel in them, and each revealed a child, most clearly _years_ away from the age of consent, in varying states of undress. Some of the panels were dark and, from the noises coming out of the rooms, this seemed to indicate that they were in use. The person who had accompanied the woman made his choice and the woman opened the door for him. Closing it behind him, the panel went dark as the door clicked shut.

Harry itched to just stun the woman and let all the children out of this hell that they were living in, but something inside him held him back. He wondered if that part was called ‘Tom’: the part of him that had become forcibly more aware of his actions and the repercussions they would have on those around. Sure, he could free these children from the brothel right now, but what would he do with them? What if this woman wasn’t the one behind their abductions, but merely the face of the organisation, which he highly suspected? What about these people who had been using and abusing these children – should they get off scott-free? No, he would try doing this the legal way. If it didn’t work, he’d take matters into his own hands.

So instead of taking out his wand and storming the cells, he followed the woman as she walked back along the corridor and out of the room, taking up her position in the big room once more. Harry did, however, decide to stay a bit longer, to gather as much information as he could. And so he did – waiting until he had heard the passcode in its complete form. Waiting even longer to verify that it was the same passcode every time. Then he left, apparating away as soon as he was far enough from the brothel to do so without arousing suspicion.

Getting home, he walked in, feeling dog-tired. Passing by the sitting room on his way to the stairs, he was surprised to see Tom there, curled up on the rug in front of the fire, a book in front of him which he was clearly not actually reading. Walking over he crouched down next to the dozing man. He looked so…innocent. Harry wondered whether Tom had ever been like those children in the brothel – just another child whose innocence was stripped away by the cruel world in which he lived. For all that Harry’s own experiences hadn’t been anything in comparison to those children, he had certainly never been allowed to be a _child_.

“Tom,” he said softly, his hand reaching out to stroke through his slave’s soft hair. Those red eyes opened fractionally and then, as awareness returned, more fully.

“Master,” he greeted, yawning. A moment later he started moving to his knees and Harry stood up.

“Come on, let’s get to bed – it’s late.” Tom stood up, meeting Harry’s gaze. His eyes were sharper, having shed the sleepiness they had held when first they had opened.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asked vaguely. Harry answered in kind.

“I hope so. I’ll deal with it tomorrow at the Ministry.” Tom nodded and left it there, the light of anticipation in his eyes. They walked up the stairs to their rooms in silence. Harry caught Tom casting a wistful look at his door, but didn’t comment on it – as much as he would love to invite Tom to share his bed with him, he still didn’t feel like it was a good idea. So, instead he just pretended he hadn’t seen it.

“Goodnight, Tom,” he said offhandedly instead.

“Goodnight, master,” came the soft return, and Tom only hesitated for a moment more before disappearing into his room and shutting the door. Casting his customary alert on the closed door, Harry disappeared into his own room.

Going through his normal pre-sleep ablutions and then lying down in bed, he found his mind wandering over the day. For all that he would have thought his distasteful experiences at the brothel should have been at the forefront, they really weren’t. Still, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised – it had been a very eventful day. He’d only been at Hogwarts for perhaps half an hour before being pulled away by the alert charm, and then had had to cover up a crime while being racked with fear and anger. Then there had been that confusing, exhausting conversation with Tom. Next lunchtime with all of its discussion. In the afternoon, he had asked Tom to help him revise for his NEWTs and the man had proceeded to put him through his paces – intermingling practical with theory in a way that was both engaging and thoroughly challenging. Then he had finished the day off with his dubiously legal (probably illegal, actually) investigation of the brothel… A long day, indeed!

Still, despite all the events of the day, it was to the conversation with Tom that he found his thoughts drifting.

He was still finding it very difficult to engage with the idea of Tom genuinely desiring submission. When he’d talked about ‘willing submission’ those few weeks back after Tom’s breakdown, he had been imagining Tom not arguing with him, not resisting him because he trusted Harry. He…he didn’t actually know everything he had had imagined, but there was certainly an element of enjoying knowing that his presence made Tom feel able to be vulnerable, as well as satisfaction when his actions brought Tom pleasure in a way that he controlled…. He supposed he hadn’t really thought beyond that, not aware of what else could be possible.

This…what Tom kept trying to offer…it was so much bigger than that. Tom becoming Harry’s slave in will and mind as well as in body…Harry hadn’t realised how much he wanted it until a part of him had leapt onto the idea like a predator leaping onto its prey. The violence with which his emotions had clung to the notion had scared Harry, if he was honest with himself, and he recognised how that had made him close off from Tom, reject what was causing his fear. He regretted that, and had tried to temper his reaction as much as possible, but….

It was just that he _still_ couldn’t quite understand why Tom would want it! Were there really people out there like that? Like them? People who weren’t just predators preying on victims? Harry found his desire to know more eating at him inside, although he was at a loss to know how to even begin. Maybe then he’d be able to give permission to himself, to learn how he could allow the beast inside him some freedom, without it destroying a man who Harry had come to realise was precious to him. But he could only do that if Tom truly wanted it, and he was at a loss to identify a way of verifying that reliably. As he had thought that morning – changing their relationship to this degree was a massive risk, and he would only engage with it if he could somehow know that these desires Tom was expressing were truly felt. But if he _didn’t_ allow their relationship to shift…would it not do it anyway? Hadn’t it shifted already without his permission?

His thoughts still twirling absently, he slipped into sleep and restless dreams of chasing after something, only to always find it _just_ out of reach.

XXX

The next morning, Tom got up early enough to prepare breakfast for them both. It was a boon having his magic back under his control – he was now able to set himself an alarm, rather than his master having to rap on his door so that he would be ready to leave the wards on time. It was a new thing with him preparing meals other than dinner, but he found he quite liked it. Cooking, for all he had disliked it at first for what it represented, had actually become something he enjoyed; now, with his better understanding of his own desires, he realised that there was the extra dimension of doing something that his master enjoyed too. And at this time, when he was trying to push away the guilt of having lied to his master, it served as something that he could do to be pleasing.

Eating in silence, Harry didn’t seem to notice how his slave was quieter than usual, his eyes kept on the table. Tom was in turns glad about that, because otherwise his lie would have been for naught, and sad, because if Harry had noticed, he might have _forced_ Tom to come clean. However, as it was, Harry was clearly too sleepy and distracted with the day ahead to notice much about his slave, and all too quickly, they were leaving the wards, Tom once more with the card and his gold tag clipped on. This time, however, he had been certain to bring his wand with him, having more options available to him in an emergency with one.

“Alright, be careful,” Harry told him, his gaze finally focused and intense.

“I will, master,” Tom promised him, meaning this one completely.

“OK, good. And if anything, _anything_ happens, don’t hesitate to contact me, OK?” he ordered.

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged, dipping his head down for a moment. When he looked up again, Harry was twisting into his apparition, disappearing with a crack. Once more feeling the loss of his master like a gaping hole within him, Tom set out for the supermarket.

After purchasing the few items he had told Harry they needed, he also decided to buy two more things. He would confess them to his master along with his other misdeeds later, once he’d accomplished his aim – he had already lied to his master, what was one more misdemeanour?

Walking back to the house, he didn’t enter the wards. Instead, he retraced his steps to the house they had visited unexpectedly the day before. Knocking on the door, he had a sudden fear that maybe they wouldn’t be home. After all, they looked the right kind of age to be working, rather than retired. This whole scheme wouldn’t work if they weren’t there.

Fortunately for him, a shape was soon visible through the translucent glass creating the window in the door. From its smaller size, Tom had to guess that it was Madeleine, a supposition that was proven a moment later when she opened the door.

“Oh!” she said, sounding surprised. “Tom. How nice to see you again. You’re looking better,” she remarked. For a moment Tom wondered whether it was a good idea to turn up on their doorstep without a single mark on him, the bruise balm having done a very good job.

“Yes, the marks looked worse than they were,” he lied smoothly. Lifting the two items he had purchased, he offered them to her. “Gifts to you and your husband to say thank you,” he told her with a charming grin that had always worked on women in the past. It certainly seemed to work on Madeleine – partially at least.

“Oh, thank you,” she said with a delighted grin. “Mm, these smell nice,” she commented, burying her nose in the flowers and then eyeing the chocolates appreciatively. “I know Albert will enjoy these too.” She eyed him. “Good thing I know you’re taken, otherwise I might think you’re trying to butter me up for some reason,” she commented coquettishly, although there was a hint of true question in her voice. Tom shrugged elegantly, looking down bashfully.

“I would never try that when I could see how well you and your husband work together,” he replied with a falsely warm note in his voice.

“Hmm,” she replied and he looked up to see her looking at him almost suspiciously. Stopping himself from showing any of his surprise, he quickly reviewed the conversation, wondering what might have made her feel wary of him. “For some reason, I feel like there’s something behind all this – something more than just wanting to say ‘thank you’,” she commented, her eyes narrowing slightly. Tom couldn’t help his eyes widening just a touch in real surprise – how had she known? Well, he’d better own up to it in a way that wouldn’t risk her shutting the door in his face.

“Actually…” he hesitated intentionally for a moment, putting on an expression of indecision. “Pardon me for asking, but yesterday…you mentioned a community?” he asked delicately, wanting to have a bit more clarification before committing himself. Madeleine looked at him in some amusement.

“So polite,” she replied with a gently humorous note in her voice. “If you’re asking whether we’re part of the local BDSM community, yes we are.” Huh, well _that_ wasn’t hard. Her quick answer had him on the back-foot. Though, he supposed, it shouldn’t be that surprising – he was wearing a collar and called Harry ‘master’, so it was a reasonable assumption for her to make that he, too, was engaging in that kind of lifestyle, being unaware as she was of the reality of the situation.

“Great,” he smiled at her, his mind racing of what to say. “It’s just…my master and I…it would be good to meet with some others like us. I was hoping that you might be able to…” he trailed off artfully and, as hoped, she finished it off for him.

“Send you in the right direction? Sure. A group of us come together once a month for a meal and an informal chat. It’s always the second Saturday of the month. We’ll be having one this week, if you’re interested in joining us. It’s much less formal than the club, I promise,” she said. “Come on in for a moment and I’ll give you the details.”

Tom complied, stepping in and wiping his feet on the mat politely, hovering in the entrance as she put the flowers and chocolates on the table in the hall. Opening one of the drawers, she took out a pad of paper and a pen. Scribbling on it for a few moments, she then gave it to Tom. “Here: the name of the restaurant, the time, and whose name to give to the maître d’.” 

“Thank you, Mrs Summers,” Tom said, injecting a note of gratitude into his voice.

“Maddy, please, and it’s no problem at all,” she replied warmly. “It’s always good to meet new people, and I’m sure you’ll get along well with the others at the Munch – it’s a nice group of people, I promise.”

“I’m sure,” he agreed, privately hoping that his master at least would get on well enough. For himself, it would probably be an exercise of using his mask to avoid wanting to curse a whole load of people and get into _more_ trouble with his master.

“Would you like some tea?” she offered.

“Thank you, but I must be getting back,” Tom refused politely. “I must get these things into the fridge,” he explained, holding up the Sainsbury’s bag as evidence of his claim. She nodded.

“I understand. Well, you’re very welcome to drop round again – bring your partner too. I run a business from home, so I’m usually here, although not always available.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m pretty sure I left my phone number on that piece of paper I gave you, so you can always phone ahead to check.”

“Thank you, Maddy,” Tom said again. Then, turning towards the door, he sent her one more charming smile. “My gratitude once more for your actions yesterday, and hopefully see you soon,” he said before stepping through the open doorway.

“Until next time, Tom,” she replied and he raised one hand as he walked away, the orange plastic bag swinging from his arm. He felt elation at knowing that his suspicions had been proved correct, and having a note in his pocket which would enable his master to speak to others who enjoyed dominance. Unfortunately, his pleasure was over-shadowed by his knowledge that, to get to this point, he’d had to lie to his master, and that he would have to confess his crimes when Harry got home.

XXX

“Potter, what can I do for you?” Auror Trainer Madraso asked, cocking her eyebrow at him as she leant against the desk. Harry came a bit closer, putting up a _muffliato_ to ensure that no one else would hear the conversation. The eyebrow rose a bit higher at his action, her expression becoming more curious.

“I would like to report the location of a suspected underage brothel in Horizon Alley,” he said slightly formally. Her expression didn’t change, though Harry got the idea that she was now giving him her full attention.

“I see. What evidence do you have of this?” Harry considered it.

“Hypothetically,” he said slowly, “if I had visited the place under concealing magic, and followed one of the patrons to see the victims with my own eyes, would that be counted as evidence?” She frowned.

“ _Hypothetically,”_ she emphasised, “if you had done that as an Auror without warrant, it would have given the opposition enough basis to throw the case out of court. As someone _not_ an Auror, _hypothetically_ you could be charged with trespass.”

“Ah,” Harry said, biting his lip. “Then I haven’t got any _evidence_ , per se,” he admitted. She looked at him thoughtfully.

“However, I suppose that if you were hypothetically to submit an anonymous tip to the Auror department, it would have to be investigated, at least superficially. And if we found any evidence that there might be some basis to the claim, a warrant could be obtained.” Harry winced slightly.

“Hypothetically, what if at least one person in the Auror department was complicit in the cover-up of the brothel?” The Auror’s face darkened with anger.

“Potter, are you suggesting that _one of us_ is complicit in an _underage brothel_?!” she demanded furiously. He fixed her with a hard look.

“ _Hypothetically_ ,” he emphasised, pinning her with his gaze until she calmed down a bit, “I might have had some information that someone in the Auror department might _potentially_ be involved.”

“What evidence?” she asked, just as intensely, but less angrily. “Hypothetically,” she added, with a roll of her eyes.

“Hypothetically, my slave might have seen a letter directed to a certain Auror that was threatening him with exposing his debt and complicity with the underage brothel to force his compliance with interfering with another investigation.” Auror Madraso’s eyes narrowed.

“A _slave’s_ word? And yours in particular. Why do I find it difficult to believe…?” Harry shrugged.

“You don’t have to believe it. Besides, all this is hypothetical. But hypothetically, if there is even the _slightest_ chance that someone in the Auror department could be involved, would you act as if everything was normal?” She stared at him, her eyes still narrowed. Then, as if coming to a conclusion, she wiped all emotion off her face, replacing it with vague boredom.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Potter,” she said almost loftily. “Baseless hypothetical claims made involving people who you have a reason to dislike are not really things we concern ourselves with.” Harry almost replied hastily in anger, but there was a light in her eyes which made him pause. “However,” she continued , almost absently, “ _Hypothetically_ if I were to find, oh I don’t know, a piece of parchment in this room with such claims on them written by an anonymous person, well that would be another matter entirely. I might have to elevate such things to a higher level, concerning another member of the Auror department as they are.” She looked at him pointedly and he nodded at her with a hint of respect.

A moment later she turned around started erasing the board she had used during the lesson, but doing so _very_ slowly, and by hand despite being able to clear it with a flick of her wand. Taking the point, Harry quickly withdrew a piece of parchment from his bag and hastily, but as neatly as possible, wrote a summary of the situation, including all details of how to access the hidden cells. He didn’t bother to try disguising his handwriting in any sort of way, figuring that Madraso would be telling Robards all about the conversation anyway. Then, exiting the room without another word, he made sure to leave the piece of parchment somewhere easily visible.

Pausing by the exit, he saw his trainer turning around and picking up the note, tucking it into her pocket. Nodding in satisfaction, Harry headed off home. Now it was up to the Auror department. In a way, Harry realised that this was a test for them – to see whether they would live up to the hype that he’d heard.

XXX

Harry left the Ministry for his lunch-break, knowing that he had limited time, but hoping that it would be enough for this meeting. Heading to Gringotts, he was quickly shown into the meeting room set aside for him. Bloodfang was there to greet him. After exchanging the usual niceties, they settled down to business.

“So, is the charity all set up? Is the paperwork arranged for the loans?” Harry asked, impatient to know, aware that it was a very short amount of time before his first beneficiary would be arriving. Bloodfang inclined his head.

“Indeed it is, Mr Potter. Despite the unfortunate…incident which led to you being unavailable for the majority of the process, we succeeded in setting everything up. Please cast a quick eye over these documents, however, to ensure that you are satisfied with everything that has been arranged.” Fortunately, Harry had already seen more detailed versions of the summaries he was handed – Bloodfang had, as always, been helpful in communicating with him.

“That all looks fine,” he responded a few minutes later after having scanned the points. Signing the bottom of the different documents, he passed them back over.

“Excellent,” Bloodfang responded with a tooth-filled grin. Glancing at a glowing crystal sphere in the middle of the table, he moved one hand to hover over it. “Are you ready to receive the charity’s first beneficiary?” he asked. Harry thought carefully for a moment and then nodded.

“Go ahead,” he replied, and in response the goblin tapped the glowing globe. They waited in silence for a couple of minutes before a knock was heard on the door. Opening, it revealed another goblin.

“Mr Draco Malfoy for Account Manager Bloodfang,” the goblin announced.

“Let him enter,” Bloodfang answered idly. Moving back, the goblin revealed Draco standing behind him, looking nervous but determined. Entering the room, he jumped when the door was shut firmly behind him. His grey eyes flicking to Harry, he hesitated. Harry stayed silent, sending a quelling look at Bloodfang when it looked like the goblin was about to speak. Draco swallowed nervously, his eyes closing for a moment before he took in a deep breath and strode forwards, pulling a chair out from the table and sitting down, his eyes fixed on the table as if not wanting to see their anger at his actions. Harry couldn’t help a proud smile from touching the corners of his mouth for a moment. Then, clearing his expression, he looked at Bloodfang with his eyebrows raised. The goblin sent him an amused look before turning to the blond on the other side of the table. “Please explain the purpose of your attendance to this meeting Mr Malfoy.” Those grey eyes looked up, the determination in them even clearer than when he’d walked in.

“I’d like to take out a loan from...from Mr Potter’s charity,” he answered clearly enough, though a bit softer than he might have once. Mr Potter? Well, Harry supposed that this _was_ business…

“For the record, are you a former slave, having completed your sentence?”

“Yes, I am,” he answered, and it was only the familiarity that Harry had with him that could hear the faint traces of shame in his voice. Frowning, he firmly reminded himself that he had no place in Draco’s life now, except as a potential benefactor.

“And for what purposes do you propose to need a loan?”

“For completing my Potions Mastery, and living costs during that time.”

“I see.” Bloodfang made a note. “How much do you propose to borrow?” Draco bit his lip.

“Eight thousand galleons?” he asked, although Harry thought he’d probably intended it to sound like a flat statement. Harry cut Bloodfang off with a raised hand, choosing to speak himself.

“How much of that is for your Potions Mastery, Dr-Mr Malfoy, and how much is living costs?” Draco’s eyes flashed to his for a moment before they dropped to the table. A moment later, they rose once more, it seeming to take all of the blond’s will to hold his gaze. Seeing surprise in his expression, Harry wondered whether it was more because of his question or because of him using Draco’s surname.

“Uh,” he seemed to pull himself out of his surprise to try to answer the question. “Master Severus is asking for seven thousand galleons for his tutelage,” he answered, and then rushed on to justify it, “which is a perfectly reasonable figure considering his reputation within the Potions community.” He then dropped his eyes to the table top once more, seemingly unable to keep looking at Harry any longer. A small movement to his arms made Harry guess that his hands were twisting under the table.

“Agreed,” Harry answered in reassurance, “but my question was to identify how much you were allotting yourself for living costs. Are you sure that a thousand galleons will be enough for the time between now and when you are established sufficiently in the Potions community to support yourself?” Harry was aware of Bloodfang staring at him from the side, and when Draco’s eyes rose to meet his once more, filled with astonishment, he started feeling a little uncomfortable at the attention. Still, he didn’t allow it to show and just looked at Draco with his eyebrows raised. “Well?”

“Um…” Draco started, not seeming to know how to answer that. Sighing quietly, Harry turned to Bloodfang.

“Let’s call it four years. How much do you think would be reasonable for living costs, assuming a fairly basic standard of living?” The stillness which had gripped his account manager easing, Bloodfang licked his lips, his tongue sliding over too-sharp teeth.

“I would say that five hundred galleons a year is an appropriate amount for the living costs of an apprentice when board and lodging are part of the apprenticeship costs, and then perhaps three thousand per year for a newly graduated Potions Master looking for work,” he estimated. Harry nodded, turning back to Draco.

“In that case, Mr Malfoy, I would make the suggestion to you of a loan of twelve thousand galleons.” He saw Draco’s hands jerk slightly in surprise. “If you wish to continue with the original eight thousand galleons, you are at liberty to do so, however please bear in mind that this loan is a one-time offer. If you find yourself in need of funds in the future, you will have to find alternative ways of obtaining them, including with a more freely available goblin loan,” _where they will impose high interest rates and take parts of you in compensation if you can’t pay up_ , he finished silently to himself. Willing Draco to take his offer, he nonetheless waited patiently for his former-slave’s response – he was done making choices for _this_ man.

“What are the terms of repayment?” Draco asked cautiously. It was a good question, and one that Harry invited Bloodfang to answer with a gesture and a look.

“The interest rate is fixed at the bank issued rate of inflation, meaning that the real-value of your debt stays constant. You are expected to make repayments where possible. Failure to make reasonable progress into paying off your debt within ten years will lead to an investigation into your circumstances and possible action taken against you should it be discovered that you are in a position to make repayments, and haven’t been doing so. There is no limit to the debt term, presuming your circumstances do not allow it to be repaid without incurring significant hardship to yourself or your family. More specific terms are in the loan contract which will be made available to you should you wish to proceed.” Draco looked at Harry in disbelief.

“Is that true Mas-Mr Potter?” he asked incredulously. Harry shrugged.

“Only for this loan, and only at this time,” he reminded the blond. Draco nodded, almost absently as his eyes showed his mind busily working. A moment later, he looked at Bloodfang and nodded his head decisively.

“Yes. I would like to make an application for a loan of twelve thousand galleons to pay for my Potions Mastery and reasonable living costs for the next four years.” The goblin inclined his head.

“Very well.” Writing on the parchment in front of him, he touched it and offered a copy to both Draco and Harry. Looking down, Harry saw it was a copy of the loan contract with the amount and beneficiary now written in the appropriate areas. “These are goblin-made contract copies which means that a signature on one will mean a signature on all. I will, however, warn you that no other changes will be replicated.” He grinned toothily. “Just our way of ensuring no attempts to…cheat the system occur.

“Mr Malfoy, take this away with you and when you are happy with the terms, initial at the bottom of every page and then sign on the last page. Mr Potter, when Mr Malfoy has signed, please counter-sign your approval on the final page. I will then file our copy and the loan will be made.” He slid another document across the table to Draco. “Mr Malfoy, since your previous account with us was closed when it was emptied last May, you will need to open another account. Please complete this contract and submit it to a goblin on the front desk to claim your account key. Make sure you do this before signing the loan contract, otherwise the loan funds will have no destination and may end up lost in the system. Any questions?” Draco shook his head, still looking a bit bewildered. Harry did have some questions, but they weren’t to do with the loan, so he kept quiet for that moment. “Mr Potter?” Bloodfang asked, looking at him.

“No, I’m good for now,” he answered. The goblin nodded in a business-like way.

“In which case, Mr Malfoy, that concludes the interview.” Aware that he was being dismissed, Draco stood up, bowing his head towards their side of the table.

“Thank you for your generosity, M-Mr Potter.”

“Just use it well,” Harry replied. “Actually, D-Mr Malfoy, do you have a few moments? I’d like a word about something,” he asked. Draco got a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look, but nodded warily.

“I-I’m available.”

“OK, great. Could you wait outside for a few minutes, then? I’d just like to finish up with Bloodfang and then I’ll be with you.”

“Of course, Mas…of course,” Draco finished quietly, his eyes down once more. Nodding at them again, he turned and left the room swiftly, closing the door quietly behind him. Harry turned back to his account manager, and saw Bloodfang staring at him with his ears twitching in question.

“Rather generous there, weren’t you, Mr Potter?” he questioned, but not accusingly. If anything, Harry would have to say he was more… _intrigued_. Harry shrugged.

“It does me no good to short-change them – my purpose is to help them, not loan them enough money to get an education but not to live,” he offered as an explanation. The goblin made a humming noise.

“I see. You mentioned some business?” he prompted. Harry nodded and then launched into the questions he had.

Five minutes later, his goodbyes said, he left the room to find Draco standing a little down the corridor, reading through the documents he’d been given.

“Draco,” Harry said quietly to get his attention. The blond looked up, his expression nervous. “Wait, can I call you that? Now that we’re not doing business?” he checked, not wanting to step over Draco’s boundaries – Merlin knew Draco probably wouldn’t tell him after all the conditioning he’d undergone.

“Of course,” the blond said softly. “M-may I call you by your first name too?” he asked, sounding uncertain.

“Sure,” Harry responded with a smile. “I think it would be a bit strange to go back to surnames after everything…”

“Yeah…” Draco agreed, trailing off.

“Look, the reason I wanted to speak to you was…” Harry hesitated, and then continued, deciding to just go for it. “You know the anti-abuse group I’ve been leading with Hermione?”

“Yes, mas-Harry,” he responded.

“Well, you’re still welcome to join it. I’m not going to pressure you about it – if you wish to join, we’d be glad to have you, but if you’d rather focus on your Potions Mastery, that’s absolutely fine too.” Draco looked at Harry, his expression thoughtful. Finally he dipped his head slightly, not in a nod, not in a bow, but some sort of respectful acknowledgement.

“I’ll think about it. Can I…can I get back to you with an answer?” Harry shrugged.

“Yes, of course. I wasn’t expecting an answer now anyway. Just send me an owl if you want to know when the next meeting is and I’ll tell you that and my floo password so you can access it.” Turning to go, Harry paused for a moment. “You know, Draco – it’s good to see you getting your life together,” he said honestly. “You’ve got a second chance now – don’t ruin it.” When Draco didn’t say a word, Harry nodded at him and then turned to go.

“I won’t,” Draco said, the softly spoken phrase making Harry pause for a moment and then, when no more came, he continued walking, intent on getting back to the Ministry before his afternoon classes began. With any luck, he’d manage to grab a sandwich from the canteen en route.

XXX

It was after dinner. Harry was sitting in the sitting room, working on an assignment for his Auror training. He felt quite accomplished – he’d managed to give a tip-off about the brothel in a way that couldn’t officially be linked to him, and he’d got Draco his loan. Two wins, he felt. Now, he just had to wait for the dominos to fall into place. In short, he was in a pretty good mood. Not to mention, of course, that dinner had been particularly tasty, though Tom hadn’t seemed to have much of an appetite.

So, when his slave walked in, a guilty look on his face, and immediately knelt in front of Harry, his head down, Harry felt like he could be forgiven the sinking sensation in his stomach – it seemed typical that he couldn’t enjoy a good day without something going wrong, the way his luck was recently.

“Master, I…I need to tell you something,” his slave murmured quietly.

“Yes?” Harry replied warily, wondering if the reason for Tom’s lack of appetite was about to be made plain.

“I…I lied to you.”

“What? When?” Harry knew he should probably be angry, but honestly, his first reaction was _surprise_. For some reason, and he still hadn’t worked out why, he had actually come to trust the man that had spent his whole life lying so well that few had ever caught him in one. Of all reasons for Tom coming in with a guilty look, that hadn’t been something that had crossed his mind.

“When you asked me why I wanted to go out today, I omitted one reason.” Ah. Thinking about it, Harry _had_ noticed something a bit…off at the time, but had pushed it aside in favour of continuing the conversation. Apparently he shouldn’t have.

“And what was that reason?” he asked, withholding judgement for now.

“I went shopping, yes, and I did want to stop nightmares potentially happening by revisiting the scene of the events…but I also wanted to visit the Summers.” Harry frowned in confusion.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“The couple who helped me yesterday,” Tom answered, his tone still quiet.

“I see. And why did you want to visit them?” Harry asked, thoughts flying through his mind at the various possible reasons for Tom both wanting to visit them and being so secretive about it.

“First because I wanted to thank them for their help. Second…” he hesitated for a moment. “Second, because I suspected they were involved somehow in BDSM and thought that they might help us to…” He trailed off. Harry figured he was just being polite and not saying what he was really thinking – that they might help _Harry_ work out what he truly wanted. Or rather, work out what he could _accept_ : he knew what he truly wanted. Maybe. Either way, he again found himself surprised at Tom’s reasoning – once more it wasn’t something that he’d considered.

“And, are they?” he asked, feeling a sense of impending doom for some reason.

“Yes.” Tom hesitated once more. “Master…Maddy, the woman, gave me details of a lunchtime meeting she and a few others have on a regular basis. It’s usually on Saturday lunchtimes between twelve and three, and there’s one this Saturday…”

“You want to go,” he stated flatly, not sure how to feel about this whole thing.

“I…I think it would be good. For us.” Tom looked up at him for the first time in the whole conversation. His gaze was open, sincere. But, having had evidence once more of just how well Tom could lie, despite the collar and Harry’s standing order to be honest, could he trust it? And as for whether it would be good, would it? Presumably the other people at this gathering would be muggles – would they understand the situation? He knew that slavery wasn’t something that happened in the muggle world, not in the present day, that was. Although this was supposed to be about willing slavery, wasn’t it?

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally. He needed time to decide whether it was worth pursuing. On the upside, at least it was only a couple of hours, so if it did turn out to be useless, at least it wouldn’t impact his studies much.

“Master…” Tom started, trailing off as if not sure what to say.

“I said I’ll think about it,” he repeated a bit sharper – he was already displeased with Tom for lying: he didn’t want the man questioning his decisions as well.

“As you wish, master,” Tom accepted in a subdued tone. Hesitating for a moment, he reached into a pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “These are the details of the meeting,” he murmured quietly. There was silence for a few moments. “Master, what do you…My punishment? For lying? And I bought a box of chocolates and some flowers for the Summers to say thank you without your permission,” he added. Harry sighed, thinking about it. He should punish Tom, he really should. He had stated at the beginning how much he hated lies, and how little he would tolerate his slave doing it to him, and lying by omission was still lying. And the fact that he had done it deliberately… It was just confusing; Harry didn’t know where to stand.

The previous day Tom had been all about desiring Harry’s direction, wanting Harry to make the decisions, not trusting his own judgement. But not more than a few hours later, he had lied to Harry, manipulating the information he had in order to encourage him to make the decision Tom wanted. It was the whole situation with the anger-enhancing spell of a few weeks back all over again – Tom hadn’t liked the choice Harry had made then, and he had thought that he wouldn’t like the decision Harry would make now, so he lied and manipulated his way into ensuring the events happened the way he wanted them to. It wasn’t like Harry expected anything different of him, or at least hadn’t done until all this had happened, but _Tom_ was the one encouraging Harry to be a proper master, for Merlin’s sake! Between Tom’s mixed signals and his own conflicted feelings over the matter, Harry was starting to wonder which way was up.

“Should I punish you?” he ended up asking, tiredly. “Because honestly, I don’t know anymore.”

“Master?” Tom asked, sounding confused.

“You say you want my direction, my guidance, my correction, but then you go and hide something like this. Instead of just talking to me about it, you decided to lie. It’s like what happened a few weeks ago when you felt you should have had visible marks for the Ministry inquiry – you manipulated the situation until I did what you felt I should do. Same thing here. How can I accept your apparent desire to submit to me willingly when you again repeat the same events, in a different way?”

“I do want your guidance,” Tom said quietly.

“Then why do this kind of thing?” Harry asked, a note of frustration in his voice.

“I…I don’t know,” murmured Tom, sounding lost. “I suppose…it’s always been the only way of me getting what I wanted – if I wasn’t in a position to just take it, I had to manipulate others to give it to me.” He looked away. “I’m sorry, master,” he said finally. Harry sighed.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I should punish you or not.”

“But aren’t you angry that I lied? That I bought things for them without your permission?” Tom prompted, though Harry couldn’t work out why he was doing so. Why did it seem that he _wanted_ to be punished?

“Yes, a bit. More disappointed, I think. Not for the chocolates or the flowers, but for the lying and manipulating. I thought we’d dealt with this issue last time, so for it to happen again…” He trailed off, sighing heavily.

“I’m sorry, master,” Tom repeated, sounding stricken. Harry just cupped his head in on hand, his elbow leaning on his desk as he looked at Tom pointedly.

“I know, but what good does an apology do when you’ll probably just repeat the behaviour again in the future?” There was silence for a few moments, Tom avoiding Harry’s eyes. Harry just waited patiently – this was _not_ a situation he wanted coming up again and again, but it had the hallmarks of being such unless it was dealt with correctly. But how to deal with it correctly…well, that’s why Harry wanted Tom to give his ideas – he had an instinctive feeling that nothing would work unless Tom was on-board with it.

“Order me,” Tom suggested finally, raising his eyes to meet Harry’s heavy gaze. “That way if I try to do it in the future, I’ll be reminded not to.” Harry considered it.

“Alright,” he said after a period of thought. “I’ll need to take some time to decide the wording, though. Regardless of what I choose, you’ll still need to _want_ to obey the spirit of my order, not the letter,” he warned. “I have no doubt that you’ll be able to find some sort of loophole, but if you do that then you’ll be proving false your own words of wanting my guidance.” He fixed Tom with a hard look and his slave dipped his eyes.

“I understand, master,” he murmured. Then, lifting his eyes once more, Harry was surprised to see gratitude in them. “Thank you,” he continued, the same emotion in his voice.

“For what?” Harry asked in confusion.

“For not giving up on me, despite my actions.” Harry shook his head helplessly as the words registered.

“Tom, if you think I’m that wavering in my decisions, it’s a wonder that you trust me at all!”

“It’s not that, master,” Tom contradicted him. “It’s just…I know I’m…difficult.” He bit his lip, seeming to want to say more, but unsure how to voice it. Harry interrupted him gently, though – he didn’t need Tom denigrating himself further to get a picture of his state of mind.

“Tom, you’re _you_ ,” he said, hearing a note of warmth creeping into his voice. “You’re unique, and regardless of how ‘difficult’ you might be, I wouldn’t change you for anyone.” Tom’s eyes showed him the true depth of his reaction to Harry’s words – they seemed to have struck him to the heart. Harry had to wonder if anyone had ever appreciated Tom Riddle for who he actually was, rather than the mask he had always worn.

“Thank you, master,” Tom replied, his voice sounding slightly choked. He dipped his head and Harry allowed it – knowing all too well how certain emotions could send even the most controlled person off balance. Looking towards the fire, he waited until he slave was able to speak again. “Master, my punishment?” Harry looked back at him, meeting his eyes once more. The deep emotion which had filled them now tucked away, he saw only a mixture of guilt and determination.

“Why should I punish you?” Harry asked, wondering where Tom’s head was at the moment. Tom bit his lip, looking away slightly for a moment before returning his gaze to Harry’s.

“I disappointed you,” he said finally. “You’re right – I promised one thing and I did another. I betrayed your trust.” He paused for a moment. “But master, it’s your choice, if you wish to punish me or not – I give you that decision.” Harry thought about it, leaning back in his chair and trying to get his thoughts straight.

Honestly, there was _definitely_ a part of him that wanted to punish Tom for his behaviour – as he had said, he had promised one thing and then done something different. He had declared his desire to follow Harry’s leading, and then had turned around and gone behind Harry’s back. It wasn’t that Harry would have forbidden him from visiting the Summers’ house if he’d known _why_ – he would have allowed it, had he known. In fact, that made it _worse_ – that this whole situation was completely unnecessary. So yes, he _did_ want to punish Tom for his badly thought-through decision to hide information from him.

However…there was the other part of him that said that once more, this was a manipulation designed to help him; to help them. There was no malice involved, no bad intentions from what Harry could see. And he’d already punished Tom once for this kind of manipulation, but it clearly hadn’t worked since he’d just repeated it…He decided to take a different approach here.

“Alright, I’ve decided,” Harry said finally. Leaning forwards, he fixed Tom with a hard stare. “This whole situation started because you omitted to tell me something, out of fear that I would make a decision different from what you wanted if I had full knowledge of your request. As a result, I remove your permission to vocalise any sound for the next twenty-four hours, starting after we finish this conversation. Do you understand?” Tom looked at him, his eyes wide.

“Yes, master,” he said after a moment. Harry nodded, his face still in its stern lines.

“Good. Now, for every time you contravene my order I will punish you in a way of my choosing. I won’t reveal it now.” Harry heard a quick intake of breath, but when he looked at Tom, it didn’t appear that the man wanted to say anything in particular. “I am not going to use the collar to enforce my order,” he announced, clearly startling Tom further, if the man’s expression was anything to go by. “I am not going to ask you about it after the punishment ends, either. If you do contravene my order in any way, I expect you to tell me at the end of the twenty-four hour period, unprompted. Do you understand what I’m trying to get at with this?” There was a pause as Tom thought about it.

“You’re giving me the opportunity to manipulate the situation for my own benefit once more,” he murmured in response, the slightest hint of an impressed tone in his voice. “But you’re hoping that I won’t.” Harry nodded.

“Precisely. I won’t know if you’ve disobeyed me – but _you_ will. In a way, this is a test – do you truly want my guidance, and the correction that may also result? Or is it just lip-service to what you think I want?” He let his words hang in the air for a few moments. Actually, given how Tom seemed to react when he was feeling guilty, Harry was fairly certain he _would_ know whether his slave had contravened his direction or not – any sign of Tom losing his appetite, being fidgety or avoiding Harry’s eyes would be pretty clear indicators. So, it would be a good test – Tom would believe that Harry wouldn’t know, but Harry would end up with a good idea of the situation either way. It wouldn’t prove Tom’s motivations, but it would at least prove whether his words about desiring to submit were mere lip service or actually had some true feeling behind them. “Any other questions?”

“Master, what about when I’m sleeping?” Tom asked immediately. “I don’t necessarily know whether I’m making a noise then.” Harry thought about it.

“You’re allowed to use a silencing charm on yourself during the night, but only then,” he decided. “Anything else?” Tom thought about it for a few more moments, and then shook his head. “Alright then, the twenty-four hours starts now.” Tom opened his mouth, probably to automatically acknowledge Harry’s words, but he stopped himself before a sound could escape.

“Good boy,” Harry praised, the words escaping him before he could censor them. Fortunately, he didn’t see the light of offence in Tom’s eyes: instead, he saw…pleasure? Moving past that confusing moment, he decided to turn to his work. “You can go, if you want,” he offered to Tom, not looking at him. There was a pause, and then his slave scrambled to his feet, leaving the room rather swiftly. Harry couldn’t blame him, honestly.

His understanding of why Tom might want to be away from him right now then was shaken when Tom came back a few moments later, a book in his hands. Settling at Harry’s feet, he leant slightly against Harry’s legs, a pleasantly warm weight. Not even trying to resist the temptation, Harry dropped one hand to card through Tom’s hair, enjoying his silky-smooth locks as always.

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:
> 
> Warnings – death of a minor (unnamed) character; some description of forced underage prostitution, though nothing explicit.
> 
> Of course by this point both Tom and Harry are terribly OOC, Tom a lot more than Harry, though I hope the progression has been believable. I think probably the most OOC thing I do with them, though, is by making them actually talk with each other. Honestly, coming from the backgrounds they do, I would imagine both of them would be a lot more tight-lipped about their feelings than they are. That they aren’t like that in my fic is purely down to my impatience for that sort of thing – I’m the kind of person who, if I’m upset with someone, will go and tell them exactly why I’m upset (diplomatically) and expect them to do the same so…
> 
> Also, a key factor of this chapter is confusion. Perhaps that should be the alternative chapter title… ‘In which Harry and Tom are both very confused’.
> 
> Harry may seem to be wavering in this, not sure what he wants, and that’s kind of true – he is only 19 after all. He has urges, desires, but he doesn’t have any context to put them in, and so he can’t really imagine a relationship with them. As a result, he wavers between desire and lack of understanding.
> 
> Tom, on the other hand, is at the other end of the spectrum – he has had a lot of experience, and so knows exactly what he wants (or almost - he doesn't have much experience with this particular situation, after all). The problem for him is that he’s had a lot of long-term habits and thought-patterns to overcome. Not to mention that the actual practice of these things, so different from what he’s used to, is completely new to him so he’s floundering a bit as well.
> 
> I hope those two characterisations have come through this and make sense.


	12. Part 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry and Tom get a bit of help from a few people, some expected and some...not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, September's started with a vengeance! Be glad that the chapter's only a day later than my previous records! Given I've only written a couple of thousand words of the next one, it's probably going to be a bit longer on that, unless I actually get time to write! On another note, it looks like this time my chapter summary is likely to be accurate, unless I suddenly think of a whole load of little scenes. So yeah, probably two chapters left.
> 
> Also, I have to thank DragonGirl87 for helping me with one of the scenes in this (you'll probably realise which one it is when you read it). They helped me get it a lot more realistic than it would have otherwise been, with a lot of patience for my (sometimes silly) questions ;) Thank you, if you ever read this story!! That said, apart from that scene, the rest of it is my fault, so don't blame them for any inaccuracies ;)
> 
> Thank you as always for your kind words - I love reading your comments :D Sometimes they keep me motivated to write instead of going off and reading the large number of fanfictions which have been building up on my 'to read' list ;) So yes, please keep them coming!
> 
> Chapter warnings - none. Well, except for a couple of passing mentions of male genitals and one or two interesting fantasies ;) Next chapter will probably have a bit more explicit stuff (finally), if I can write it credibly...
> 
> Enjoy!

Tom woke up yawning loudly. Or at least, he would have been yawning loudly had he not applied a silencing charm on himself before going to sleep. Awake now, he reluctantly _finite_ ’d the charm, obeying his master’s instructions. He’d managed to get through the previous evening without making a sound and was determined that he would continue that success for the next few hours. After failing his master the previous day, he wanted to show that he _could_ be good; that he _wanted_ to obey.

Going downstairs, he prepared breakfast in silence, welcoming his master into the kitchen with a dipping of his head rather than his customary greeting. Breakfast was eaten in silence, Tom keeping his eyes on his food, not feeling worthy of meeting his master’s gaze while undergoing the punishment. Maybe once it was over and he’d be forgiven, things would be able to go back to normal, but for now…

“Alright, I’ll be back at normal time,” Harry said as he stood up. “Try to behave today,” he continued with a wry note in his voice. Unable to respond verbally, Tom nodded, his eyes trained on Harry’s feet. A hand in his hair made him look up, and he saw a strange look on his master’s face. It looked like Harry wanted to say something but was holding himself back. A moment later, Harry let his hand drop and turned away, and just like that, whatever it had been was left unsaid forever. “OK, see you,” he said, leaving the kitchen and disappearing into the corridor. A few minutes later Tom heard the front door close, and like that he was alone once more.

Sighing silently, he flicked his wand and the plates started washing themselves.

A few hours later, he was in the library, reading. He was finding it hard to settle, and the book he was reading wasn’t helping: it seemed to have been written by an idiot savant - at times containing interesting ideas, and at others exhorting theories which had already been proven to be completely wrong. After reading one such fallacy, Tom found himself snorting in disgust. Then he froze.

Damn. Did snorts count as breaking his silence? He had a nasty feeling that they did – if murmurs and other sounds during his sleep would count, then snorts almost definitely did. Merlin’s balls. He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, the knowledge that he hadn’t even been able to obey his master’s orders for silence for a mere twenty-four hours weighing heavily on him. Not to mention the apprehension that crept through him at the remembrance that he now had another punishment waiting for him.

Of course, the thought _did_ flash through his mind of not telling his master about it: _surely snorts didn’t count_ , a little voice said temptingly. He shoved that thought away, not entertaining it for more than a moment – trying to deceive his master for his own gain had led him into his mess; he’d be terribly foolish if he thought it was likely to lead him _out_ of it. So no, he would be honest with his master, and would face up to whatever Harry deemed fit as his punishment.

Unfortunately, that little moment wasn’t the only one that day. It seemed that being unable to cast a silencing charm on himself and getting buried in books was not a good combination for avoiding making sounds. He failed in his task twice more: once near lunchtime when he made a noise of impatience at the book’s author – it was taking _forever_ to get to the point, and wasting his time with unnecessarily flowery language besides; the second shortly before Harry arrived home. The second was undeniably a breaking of Harry’s instruction to stay silent – he’d found his new research project and his elation had driven an ‘Aha!’ out of him without his permission.

Thus, his spirits low at his continual failure, he went to make dinner. Their conversation had started after dinner the previous day, and his interdiction had commenced at approximately half past eight: he imagined that the lifting of his ban would be the same time that night. He still had to get through a couple more hours until he was able to relax…and until he would find out his punishment.

XXX

It was strange to have a completely silent Tom, Harry decided as he was sitting at his desk after supper, once more taking time for revision since they hadn’t been given any more assignments to do that day at the Ministry. It wasn’t like the man was exactly _chatty_ , but he had become accustomed to their conversations over the dinner table – discussions that ranged from just sniping mostly-playfully at each other, to more in-depth subjects. So far, they’d steered away from politics – neither wanting to disrupt the status quo for no real reason. They’d also stayed away from each other’s childhoods, again knowing that these were touchy subjects. They had, however, both been able to find common ground when it came to ripping apart the Wizarding world’s media and the fickleness of its population, as well as a number of other topics.

As for when he was curled up near Harry’s feet, as he was at that moment, Harry was used to hearing the odd sound from him. Not words, normally, but plenty of other little noises that weren’t disruptive in the slightest; serving only to show if Tom was enjoying his book or was creating a vituperative rant in his mind at the idiocy of the author. Occasionally, the latter would spill out to become annoyed murmurs, or even a short exclamation made to the room without any intention of receiving a response.

So in short, having Tom being completely silent was strange. And oddly lonely. Harry hadn’t realised how much those little sounds had created a backdrop in the room which reminded him that he wasn’t alone, until they had disappeared. He was glad that Tom had stayed near him – being able to reach down and stroke through his slave’s hair every so often reassured Harry that the absence of sound didn’t mean the absence of him altogether. By the time half past eight came around again, Harry was actually quite glad to be able to lift his punishment; happy to return to normal.

“It’s been twenty-four hours,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “You may speak again – your punishment is done.”

“Thank you, master,” Tom replied, a note of relief in his voice as he lifted his head. Harry found himself wondering whether his slave had succeeded in staying silent for the entire time, or if he had broken it at all. And if he had, whether he would admit it. However, sticking to his word, he didn’t ask, instead just turning back to his work. He wasn’t left wondering long - he had barely read two lines of his notes when Tom spoke. “Master…” he started. Harry looked up and saw an expression of nervousness on his face, his tongue flickering out to wet his lips.

“Hmm?” Harry hummed encouragingly.

“I…I failed. To keep silent.”

“I see,” Harry replied neutrally, though inside him, something which had been feeling tight suddenly loosened. He hadn’t realised how much he had been wanting Tom to be honest with him until it happened. “How many times, and how?” Tom breathed out as if trying to control his apprehension.

“Three times, master. While I was reading today I made two noises and one exclamation without realising,” he explained, an odd mixture of fear and relief in his voice. Harry couldn’t help smiling and reaching down to run a gentle hand through his hair. Tom half-closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, sending a thrill of pleasure through Harry.

“Well done for being honest,” Harry told him warmly. The look Tom gave him at that almost took his breath away – it was warm and open, leaving Tom looking surprisingly vulnerable and _young_. He almost regretted having to punish Tom, but knew that it was important that he kept his word. “Three times… I said there would be consequences,” he said, observing his slave’s reaction. Tom cast his eyes down, but Harry didn’t see any anger or sulkiness in his posture.

“I know, master,” he said acceptingly, although Harry could detect hints of fear. Harry nodded – good: he wasn’t fighting this. Not that Harry had expected him to, but a punishment for failing a punishment? Was that a good way of doing things? _Too late now_ , he decided. He’d actually spent a lot of time that day thinking about what he should do as punishment. He’d left it open the previous evening not because he’d wanted Tom’s imagination to run riot, or because he feared Tom weighing the punishment against his desire to obey, but because he hadn’t actually had anything in mind.

He’d considered using _punire_ , but decided that the punishment didn’t fit the crime – Tom’s actions hadn’t been _terrible_ (apart from the whole killing someone thing, but honestly, Talbot _had_ started it), and his slave’s intentions had been good, so using pain against him just…didn’t feel right. Other options had occurred. Tom losing access to a meal for each sound he made had been one (almost an immediate dismissal of that one – Harry was _not_ the Dursleys or Richards, and he wouldn’t use food as a weapon) or giving him food he disliked. Another had been him kneeling at Harry’s side during as many meals as he made sounds, but he’d dismissed that one too after some thought: it just didn’t fit the crime in the way Harry was searching for. In the end he’d hit on something he felt would be perfect.

“For every sound you made, I want you to tell me a story of something that happened when you were growing up; a memory which still makes you feel uncomfortable today when you recall it.” Tom stared at him for a moment.

“A memory, master?” he asked in confusion. Clearly, he was wondering about the link between the punishment and the crime. Harry decided to explain.

“Your error on Tuesday was because you failed to tell me information which I needed in order to make my decision. Your initial punishment was that of silence, because you chose to keep silence when you should have spoken. For failing to keep the silence, your punishment is to speak about something that you dislike remembering. It also serves to help me get to know parts of your past, something which can only help me get to know you,” he explained. Tom looked at him for another moment, and then dipped his head.

“As you wish, master,” he replied, though he didn’t sound all that happy about it. Idly, Harry wondered whether he would actually have preferred a few seconds of _punire_ – in a way physical pain was more easily overcome than the pain caused by an unpleasant memory. “May I take some time to think about it?” he asked politely. Harry inclined his head.

“Sure – take the time you need. When you’re ready, tell me,” he acquiesced, turning back to his work.

It was perhaps ten minutes later that Tom announced that he was ready. Harry thought that it would probably be a bit of a long retelling, so moved over to the armchair, indicating with his finger that he wanted Tom to come and kneel in front of him. He’d thought about moving to the couch, but since this was a punishment, he thought that it wouldn’t be a good idea – the couch had been the place of unprompted, frank discussion, and this didn’t quite fit the bill. He’d also considered whether it would be better for Tom to be next to him or in front of him, but again, considering that this was punishment and that he wanted to see Tom’s expressions clearly, in front seemed the best option. When they were both sitting, or kneeling in Tom’s case, Harry indicated to his slave to begin.

“My first memory is from when I was very young, perhaps four or five years old. It was the first time that I could remember and process being adopted. I’d been adopted before, or at least that was what the nuns told me, and I was adopted many times after, but this time…it was the first.” Harry could already tell that it wasn’t going to be a happy story, although Tom was clearly doing his best to keep his tone neutral and level. And another thing – Tom had been adopted? Well, Harry supposed that as cute as he had been at eleven, and as attractive as he had grown to be, it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he’d been an adorable child.

“I was excited. I knew that everyone wanted to have a family; that it was a topic the other orphans often talked about. At first, I thought it meant that my mother and father had come to find me: that the nuns and Mrs Cole had been wrong when they’d said my mother had died. And at the same time as I was excited, I was fearful – they’d left me before, after all. Who was to say that they wouldn’t leave me again? But I went with them, the fear and excitement warring within me.

“At first it seemed to go alright. They were a nice couple, I remember, though perhaps that is just a child’s rosy-tinted perspective since I _wanted_ them to be nice. I started to hope that maybe this was it; maybe this was where I would be able to settle; maybe I would finally have _parents_.” A flicker of disgust flashed over his face. “Of course, it didn’t last. One day I was upset over something – I’ve forgotten what it was – and my magic made the furniture around me rattle, plates and glasses falling to the floor.” He smiled bitterly. “As you can imagine, my accidental magic was rather powerful, much to my detriment at that time.” Harry could certainly imagine it – his own had been rather powerful too, and troublesome as well.

“For obvious reasons, it didn’t take long for the couple to take me back to the orphanage.” He paused for a moment, something that might have been sadness, or anger, or rue in his eyes. “I stood on the orphanage steps, held back by one of the nuns, and cried after their retreating backs. I promised to be good, I begged them not to leave me…. But they did. Without a second glance. I never saw them again.” Harry’s heart felt like it was about to break, the complex emotions in Tom’s voice tugging at his organ like he’d rarely ever felt before. He’d never been in the position Tom had been…but he remembered how it had felt for Sirius to offer him a home, and then to have to go back to the Dursleys again. And he’d been thirteen at the time – Tom had just been a baby. To have lost what he most desired….

Small wonder that he had reacted when Harry had brought Draco home for the first time. Small wonder that he had thought he was being replaced and had responded with jealousy and anger. Suddenly a whole host of things that he had noticed made sense. Made horrible sense. Harry couldn’t stop himself. He slid down to the floor and wrapped his arms around the man whose words made his heart hurt.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said, making sure to keep his voice clear of pity. Tom was stiff for a few moments, but finally relaxed a little, leaning into Harry’s hold, although not reciprocating. Taking in a shuddering breath, Harry felt Tom pull away slightly, and released him, sliding back into his seat. “At least you know we are bound together until death,” he observed. “You know that I will never leave you; that I will never give you up. That I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” he remarked, watching Tom closely. His slave held his eyes for a long few seconds before he dipped his head.

“As you say, master,” he replied. Harry narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t sound convinced,” Harry observed. Tom shrugged elegantly.

“Recent times have proven that you can give control over my collar to another. Who is to say that you might not become bored of me, lend me out to your friends on a semi-permanent basis?” he explained, a bit reluctantly. Harry wondered whether he feared giving his master ideas. Not that he needed to in this case – Harry couldn’t imagine a situation where he would be capable of caring for Tom, and would choose not to. He said as much to his slave.

“I mean, I didn’t choose to do that even after that whole debacle in Diagon Alley, or when you were still being a prickly bastard at the beginning,” he added. “Why would I do it now we’re managing to get on?”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied to his statement, though Harry was pretty clear it was a case of accepting his words, rather than agreeing with them. He decided not to fight it now – time would honestly be the only thing that would reassure Tom completely, Harry thought. At least now he knew what to look out for – abandonment issues were clearly one of Tom’s ‘things’.

“Alright, what’s the second memory?” Harry asked, sensing it would be best to move on a bit.

“At the end of my Third year at Hogwarts, I asked to stay at Hogwarts over the summer.” Harry wanted to say that he knew that – he’d seen it in a memory during his Second year – but he stayed silent and let Tom speak. “I went to my Head of House about it, not confident enough at that point in my position in the school to approach Dippet directly. Not that that would have changed anything,” he commented bitterly. Suddenly Harry realised that this was actually a _different_ time from the memory he’d seen. Actually, come to think of it, hadn’t the memory he’d seen been during the first Chamber of Secrets’ incident? Tom’s Fifth or Sixth year, he thought, since Tom was a prefect, but not Head Boy.

“He laughed at first, not thinking me serious. Told me that he understood that I wanted to continue using magic during the holidays – who wouldn’t? – but that like everyone, I’d have to go home.” Tom’s face darkened and a hint of anger touched his lips. “I told him about what awaited me. About the bombs which had been falling for the previous eight months. About my fear that should I go to the orphanage, I’d never return because I’d be dead.” He was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed. Harry suddenly felt a deep aching sympathy for him. Honestly, what he had learned about the Second World War in primary school had seemed so distant from his education at Hogwarts; he had never made the connection that Tom had been in London during the early 1940’s*. He had never realised that Tom would have seen the war as one of the civilians living through it. Small wonder he wanted to stay at Hogwarts: he would have wanted to do so himself. Heck, he _had_ wanted to stay, and he’d only had to face the Dursleys.

“He still refused me. The lack of understanding in his eyes belied the sympathy in his voice: never having lived in the muggle world, what did he know of bombs? What did he know of the destructive powers that the muggles had harnessed in the previous half-century? What did he understand of the devastation of war, he who had always been comfortable in Britain? Even the war with Grindleward was little more than a series of skirmishes, when compared to the vast battleground of the muggle’s war. And he never truly invaded Britain, besides. The Wizarding world never had to fear the drone of an aircraft moving overhead, the whistle of a bomb as it was released….” Tom was silent again and Harry didn’t push, seeing how hard it was for him to speak about this memory from the twisted expression he wore.

“I outright begged him, gripped by my fear of dying before even finishing Hogwarts. I threw my dignity to the floor for him to walk on. And walk on it he did. He told me he would speak to the deputy headmaster about it, and in that moment I knew it was lost. Dumbledore had never liked me, never trusted me. I knew even at fourteen that he would never accept a request like that, not if it came from me. I walked out of Slughorn’s office and went straight to the library.

“The whole situation confirmed what I had already learnt in the fourteen previous years – that no one would give me anything; that the only person who would help me, was me. It fanned the flames of my desire for power, because if I was powerful enough, no one would be able to deny me anything. I think it was also then that the seed of desire for immortality was planted. It wasn’t the first thing I searched for, but my fear of death, of dying before I had accomplished anything….” He trailed off, his eyes distant.

“It started then,” Harry finished for him. His slave nodded absently, his mind clearly still in the memories of the past. Small wonder again. Harry had never questioned _why_ Tom had searched for immortality; why he had been willing at sixteen to split his _soul_ in order to gain it. Maybe he should have. It wouldn’t have changed anything about his actions: Voldemort had still needed to be stopped, regardless of his motivations for becoming such in the first place. But maybe it would have helped his understanding. A thought occurred. “If you had such a bad result when you asked to stay during the holidays in your Third year, why did you ask Dippet again when the whole Chamber of Secrets stuff was happening?” Tom looked directly at him and the bitterness in his expression almost made Harry recoil.

“I had convinced myself that the situation was different. I was a prefect, known and trusted in the school rather than just another Slytherin student. I was also speaking directly to the headmaster – I had reasoned that Slughorn had refused my pleading without even speaking to the headmaster about it. And if he had gone to Dumbledore as he had said at the end, I was certain that the deputy headmaster wouldn’t have transferred my request either. I…hoped that approaching the headmaster directly would have a different result. It seems you already know how that turned out,” he replied with the slightest hint of curiosity in his voice. Harry settled back into his chair from where he’d been slightly leaning forwards as he thought about how to explain.

“How much do you know about the fate of your diary?” Tom looked at him with guarded eyes.

“I know it was destroyed, and little else. When I realised that, I was not in the frame of mind to listen to reasons or explanations…. I almost killed Lucius that time for his failure to protect it.” Harry hummed in acknowledgment, trying to think of a way to talk about his Second year without going into too much detail.

“I destroyed it,” he said abruptly. Tom nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on Harry’s.

“I had assumed that it was either you or Dumbledore who had done so,” he commented. Harry nodded.

“Yes – I stabbed it with a fang of the basilisk in my Second year,” he expanded and Tom’s eyes almost bugged out in his surprise.

“The _basilisk_? In your _Second_ year?” he spluttered, still wide-eyed. Harry thought that the look of complete shock suited him, as self-composed and put-together as he usually was. Grinning slightly, Harry embarked on a much abridged version of that particular year at school. Throughout, he kept an eye on Tom’s reactions, watching the emotions pass across his face. Confusion, surprise, reluctant admiration, disgust, and a strange kind of relief when it was revealed that most of the effects had been temporary. In the end, Tom just shook his head.

“It’s a wonder you survived,” he commented. Harry shrugged.

“Potter luck, remember,” he reminded his slave. “The bad luck to end up in terrible situations, and the good luck to get out of them unscathed. Well, mostly unscathed – I do have a pretty wicked scar from that time,” he remarked, rolling up his sleeve and showing Tom the oval shape on both sides of his arm which was the fang’s entry and exit point. Tom got an interesting look on his face: it was a mixture of shame and thoughtfulness.

“It’s probably worth you getting a blood toxicity test, master. And a venom resistance test,” he commented. Harry frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Since the method of your survival was receiving phoenix tears on the wound, it’s very likely that the venom is still in your bloodstream: phoenix tears are not neutralisers - they are healers. It’s possible that you’ve had both of them circulating around in your body, one damaging and the other healing in a continuous cycle.”

“Isn’t that bad?” Harry asked, suddenly wide-eyed himself. Tom shrugged slightly.

“Since you haven’t shown any signs of damage up to this point, I suspect your body, or more specifically your _magic_ , has found ways to deal with it. Hence why I suggest that you get those tests – your experience may make your blood actually toxic itself, or provide some resistance to lesser poisons. On the other hand, it may also make you heal slower since your magic is already working to heal you all the time, or conversely make you _more_ susceptible to poisons for the same reason. Either way, I think it’s something you need to find out.” Harry nodded slowly, tucking the information away for later reference. Tom had a point – better to know than have a problem with it at a later stage.

“Alright, what’s the third memory, then?” he asked, wanting to move on. Tom’s eyes flicked away, his expression uncomfortable.

“This one’s slightly different. It’s…” he hesitated for a moment. “I’m not sure if you would count it as a memory of growing up, but it certainly makes me feel uncomfortable now.” He grimaced.

“Tell me,” Harry ordered quietly, suddenly immensely curious. Tom took a deep breath and then started speaking, staring at the fire.

“When I started Hogwarts, it wasn’t…fun. As you can imagine, a poor orphan with a muggle-sounding surname sorted into Slytherin… Life wasn’t easy for my first two years.” No, that didn’t surprise Harry at all. Again, it wasn’t something he had really thought about, but now presented with the reality, it made perfect sense. He knew Snape had had a tough time of it too, and imagining the fate of a supposed ‘mudblood’ among the Slytherins in his year…No, he wasn’t shocked at the idea that Tom had had a tough run of it. “It took time to develop a reputation of power, academic excellence, and ruthlessness, especially since the tricks I had used to intimidate the other orphans didn’t work so well on upper years with their own high-level curses at hand. Nor, really, on my year-mates, who had been around magic since birth.

“My dorm-mates shunned me for the most part, although their initial heckling died down fairly early on when I demonstrated that, despite my muggle upbringing, I was an _extremely_ quick study, and could grasp the material in classes a _lot_ easier than they could. It took a bit of time, but before the end of First year, I had established myself as a helpful person to turn to when they needed concepts explained so they could do their essays. Once I moved into Second year, I made sure to be a mentor to the younger students, creating a base of support for myself. Coupled with my power and my knowledge of magic , which was far above expectations for my age, even for someone magic-raised, this was what enabled me to take control of the house early into my Fourth year.” _Huh, impressive_ , Harry thought. To go from the bottom of the pile to the top in four years was…impressive. It once more brought to Harry’s attention the idea that he’d had before – that when Tom Riddle desired something, he dedicated an amount of attention that most people were incapable of to achieving it. He’d been like that when desiring Harry’s death; when securing his immortality; when taking over the Wizarding world. And he’d almost always succeeded in what he set out to do.

“But that’s just to give you a little background in why this memory is so…important,” he continued. “Of my year-mates, there was one person who didn’t follow the same pattern. Aurelius Avery.” The name was familiar.

“Wasn’t that one of the Death Eaters who came to your resurrection?” Harry asked, his brow furrowed. Tom looked at him, his expression unreadable.

“His son,” he said shortly. Harry nodded.

“Right – that makes sense.” He grimaced. “A bit of a coward, wasn’t he? I vaguely remember him begging for forgiveness, and you _crucio_ ing him.” Tom made a face.

“Avery Junior was not…one of my best followers,” he admitted. “But, looking back, I suppose that _I_ was the reason for that. In part, at least.” With that cryptic statement, he went back to his narrative. “Aurelius Avery was different from the others I shared a dorm with. He never treated me with the same disdain that the others did until I started being useful to them. He never tried to hex me, or play pranks on me, at least not to my knowledge. Instead, he seemed to spend most of his time watching me, a question on his face. He didn’t try to befriend me, not at that point, but he didn’t try to victimise me either.

“I found out later that he was magic-sensitive, and that he could feel the power curling off my skin, power that was, at eleven, as great as most of our professors, if not more so. Untamed, wild, but powerful. When I started taking over the house, he was one of the first to come to my side, and he was always loyal.

“He saw more of me than anyone else in the school. I don’t think he ever truly saw beneath my mask, but he, at least, realised that it _was_ a mask, something none but Dumbledore ever managed during those years. To my knowledge, at least.” He fell silent for a moment, staring once more into the fire. Harry waited patiently for him to continue. It was interesting – he had never realised that Tom had had a friend, because from what Tom was saying, Aurelius Avery had been the closest to a friend that the young Tom Riddle had ever had, or perhaps that he would ever allow. “He stayed by my side and, again, was one of the first to swear himself as one of my Knights of Walpurgis, which were the forerunners to the Death Eaters. He was the one to suggest the path of becoming Minister for Magic when I expressed dissatisfaction with the way things were run; with the way magic was controlled and banned for no good reason.” Once more, he fell silent.

“Why does this memory make you feel uncomfortable?” Harry asked gently, reticent to break the contemplative silence between them, but too curious not to. Tom looked at him, and his breath caught in his throat at the devastation in them.

“Because of the way I repaid his loyalty,” he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. “He supported me for years loyally. He watched me delve into magic of all types, but especially the Dark Arts. He waited for me to return from my years abroad, patiently believing in my vision, in my ambition. He supported me even when I formed the Death Eaters into a terrorist group, instead of the legal party it had originally been. He saw me spiral into madness and insanity, spilling magical blood as much as muggle; losing my path in death, torture and destruction. And then he tried to pull me back from the edge, not long before the First War started. He asked me some questions, nothing confrontational, but merely designed to make me think, hoping that I might correct my course before it was too late. And how did I repay that?” The pain in his eyes made Harry’s heart sink.

“I killed him. And not cleanly, privately as he would deserve even had he been wrong in questioning me. In my madness, in my paranoia, I thought he was a traitor, that his questions were something designed to make me and others doubt in our cause, in my power. I made an example of him in front of all my marked…and his son. At a bare eighteen years old, Marcus Avery watched his father being tortured until he was an unrecognisable mess of blood and muscle and bone, his pleas for death silent because of the ruin he had made of his throat from his screams. And then I killed him.”

At the glint of a tear in his eyes, Harry once more could not prevent himself from slipping to the floor and pulling Tom into a hug, trying to communicate through his touch that he was there, that even learning of what he had done didn’t mean Harry was going to leave him. Tom held himself tense for a moment, and then _sank_ into Harry, his hands coming up to clutch at Harry’s shirt. Harry stroked his slave’s back as he shuddered silently, only the wet seeping through the material on his shoulders telling him of the tears that were being shed from those red eyes.

A few minutes later, Tom managed to compose himself enough to pull away, using his shirt sleeves to wipe away the damp around his eyes, on his cheeks. Looking at Harry’s shirt and the stain now in it, he flicked his hand, the material drying like it had never been wet. He looked a mixture of humiliated and shamed, presumably the first because of the tears, but if Harry had to guess, he would imagine that the latter was perhaps out of feeling like he didn’t deserve it – having felt the same at multiple times, Harry was well-able to recognise it in someone else.

“It’s OK to feel regret,” Harry told him. “It’s OK to wish you could go back and change things.” Merlin knew there were so many things Harry wished he could go back and change – Sirius’ death, Cedric’s death, and ever trusting in Dumbledore, among others.

“I haven’t felt regret about it until now,” Tom admitted quietly. “At the time I was satisfied that a threat to my power, to my reign had been destroyed and that those who had seen his tortuous end would rethink any traitorous thoughts themselves. Now, I wonder whether my brutal treatment of one of my most loyal Death Eaters actually had the reverse effect… Whether that was the case or not, it certainly cemented my position in many people’s minds of me as a monstrous being, I’m sure. If I hadn’t been defeated by you a year later…I might easily have been facing an uprising, regardless. But I didn’t see that, I didn’t understand that until I was once more made whole; until I was able to look back at myself from an outside perspective. Helping Draco actually helped me immensely in the regard,” he confessed.

“And now?” asked Harry just as quietly – the intimate feeling of the situation precluded loud voices and flamboyant reactions. Tom shrugged.

“And now, I’ve realised how little I am to be trusted with power, as I have said. I can never make up for what I’ve done, but I can move forward in a better way, under your direction. Maybe one day I’ll be able to see where the line lies before I cross it, but until then…” he trailed off. Harry nodded. He knew what Tom meant, and he found that he couldn’t disagree with it, not entirely. He was still not convinced that _he_ was the best person to make decisions for both of them, but with the situation as it was, he was the only one who _could_.

XXX

Tom realised he had forgotten to tell his master about his research project just as they were going to bed. Not wanting to keep his master up longer than necessary, he decided to wait until the next evening to tell him, and spent Thursday starting research and preparing a plan of events. Getting a little tired of the library, he also decided to re-organise the Potions lab – Draco had used it several times in preparation for his apprenticeship, and his system of organising ingredients didn’t suit Tom. Since he knew his master wasn’t particularly fond of making potions, despite now improving his ability to do so, he knew that Harry wouldn’t mind if he reorganised things to his own satisfaction.

He also thought it might be a good idea to keep a stock of certain potions, but decided that it would be best to check with his master before beginning to brew them. Potions had never been a passion, but he valued them for the varied effects that they could have, and knew that his skills needed a bit of practice.

By the time Harry had got home and sat down to the meal Tom had prepared, he was almost bouncing in his seat in impatience. Harry looked at him with an amused lift of his eyebrows which told Tom that his master had recognised his impatience.

“I’ve decided on my next research project, master,” Tom announced as soon as Harry had picked up his cutlery to take the first bite.

“Oh?” Harry asked in a tone which seemed to be holding back a chuckle.

“What?” Tom snapped slightly, glaring at him. Harry shrugged.

“It’s just you look like some of my housemates used to on Christmas, before they opened their presents. It’s...rather amusing,” he commented. Tom’s glare increased in intensity, but it didn’t seem to daunt his master. For good reason, Tom had to admit – it wasn’t like he could do anything to Harry that the man didn’t permit, anyway.

“Anyway,” he said, trying to communicate with his tone how _not happy_ he was, “as I said, I’ve decided my next project: an animagus form.” Harry’s eyes widened and his eyebrows lifted higher in surprise.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he admitted.

“What were you expecting?” Tom asked, his attention briefly diverted. Harry shrugged.

“Not sure. Maybe something else involving Arithmancy. Or the Dark Arts. Or Potions.” Tom was insulted – did Harry think that he was only capable of those subjects?

“I did get NEWTs in seven subjects, master, one of which was Transfiguration,” he reminded the man. “Outstandings across the board, no less.”

“I’m not doubting your capabilities, Tom,” Harry placated, that damned amused tone back in his voice. “it’s just…why choose to study to become an animagus?” Tom shrugged elegantly.

“It’s something that always intrigued me, but given how long it took, it never seemed worth my time when there were so many other things to learn which were more immediately applicable. Now though…”

“Now you have the time,” Harry completed. Tom nodded. “You know,” his master started wistfully, “since learning that my father and his friends were animagi, I’ve wanted to learn myself. With everything going on, though, I’m not sure I have the time.” The look on his face tugged at Tom’s heartstrings – the disappointed longing creating feelings within him to which he wasn’t accustomed.

“Why don’t I brew the potion for you too, master,” he offered suddenly. “Then you can at least see what your form is. If you have the time, we can practice together, and then if I succeed before you, I can still talk you through the process whenever you’re able.” Harry looked at him strangely, though Tom wasn’t sure why. What had he said? Either way, his master evidently decided not to enlighten him as to his thoughts.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice full of a gratitude that Tom felt was really rather unnecessary – how was this different from him helping his master with his NEWTs? Clearing his throat, Tom pulled out the list he had made earlier of potions he thought they should stock up on, leaving his master’s strange reactions to one side – he might find out one day; he might not. If Harry was making the decision on whether he needed to know or not, he was content, for all his curiosity.

XXX

The story about the underage brothel broke on Friday morning. Harry got into the Ministry to find the other recruits talking about it, and when he asked for a copy of the paper, Neville handed him one without a word, some sort of fierce righteousness in his eyes. Reading the article, Harry felt a dark satisfaction go through him at finding out that several perpetrators had been caught ‘in the act’. When there was the implication that one of the ‘customers’ had links to the Auror department, that satisfaction grew too great to hold back and he found his lips curling in sadistic pleasure. The person they were hinting at couldn’t be anyone other than Richards, he suspected, and the knowledge that the man had dug his own grave…delicious.

Of course there was no mention of him, not that he expected there to be; not that he _wanted_ there to be – much better for the ‘mysterious informant’ to go unnamed than him having to face the public furore that would result from him being in the papers once more.

“Hey Neville, can I keep this?” he asked and the other recruit just shrugged.

“Sure, no problem Harry,” he answered and that was that. Harry suspected that Tom would enjoy the article just as much; perhaps more.

The good mood resulting from the morning’s article stayed with him throughout the day, though when he received a memo in the last half an hour asking him to go to Kingsley’s office, it did dip slightly. After classes finished, he conjured Prongs and sent Tom a message saying that he would be late back, but didn’t know how late he would be. He hoped the man would understand and that it wouldn’t upset the careful truce they had at that moment.

Since the events on Tuesday and the consequences on Wednesday, they’d come to the unspoken agreement that Tom wouldn’t try to push things until Harry was ready to talk about it. Although the knowledge that his slave was more willing to talk about his own slavery than Harry was, was a little humiliating, Harry would take what he could get in terms of peace at home. And when it came to his own feelings, peace meant just not thinking about them. As soon as he did, he ended up going back into the spiral of questioning whether he was a monster or messed up for _wanting_ to be a master to Tom; and whether Tom was genuine or simply believed himself so, when he said he wanted to be a slave - because for all the pretty words, that’s what it boiled down to, in the end.

Harry shook the thoughts out of his head – the Ministry was _not_ the place to day dream in – and walked the familiar route to the Minister’s office. Once there, he was waved straight in by the secretary.

“Harry,” Kingsley greeted, his usual beaming smile absent. “Thanks for coming. Please, sit,” he said, waving towards the chair in front of his desk. Harry deigned to comply, his own smile absent as well. He still wasn’t all that pleased with the Minister. He’d undertaken the review of the decisions Kingsley had made while in office, and the fact that the Minister had still, in the vast majority of the cases, worked towards the goals of equality and stability that Harry agreed with was the only reason he hadn’t already started planning a campaign against the man. “How’s Tom?” he asked, seemingly offhand.

“Recovering,” Harry replied shortly, the ‘ _no thanks to you_ ’ hanging in the air awkwardly between them.

“Good, good,” Kingsley replied, seemingly unsure of what else to say. Then, clearly moving onto the reason why he had asked Harry to visit, he continued. “I believe you are responsible for the headlines this morning.” Harry narrowed his eyes.

“That sounds like you disapprove,” he remarked, seemingly idly. Kingsley avoided his gaze.

“Not at all – abuse and exploitation must be rooted out in all its myriad forms,” he rebutted, a note of real passion in his voice. “But you must see that it being so public reflects badly on the Auror department which has already been under fire for too long.” Harry’s eyes narrowed further, the frown between his eyebrows deepening.

“If the Auror department has to rely on incidents involving its personnel being swept under the carpet, there are more things wrong than just one Auror’s corruption,” he told the man sharply. “Besides, all I did was leave an anonymous tip – if you wish to know why it was made public, I’m not the person to ask.” There was silence for a moment, and then the Minister sighed, meeting his gaze once more.

“You’re right,” he admitted. Sighing again and scrubbing a hand across his face tiredly. Suddenly Harry realised how deep the bags were under his eyes, and wondered when he had last slept. Not to mention the bloodshot appearance that had taken over the whites of his eyes. “It’s just…” he shook his head, a rueful expression. “I can’t believe I never saw it. I worked with him for years, and I didn’t see it coming. Didn’t see him being abusive to a helpless slave, either, Voldemort or not,” he finished, his gaze on Harry’s showing remorse and shame. Harry couldn’t help twisting the knife a bit.

“You know,” he started ‘thoughtfully’, “maybe it was for the best – if you hadn’t given Tom to Richards, the brothel might never have been discovered.” Kingsley frowned.

“What do you mean?” Harry pinned him with his gaze.

“It was Tom who found the information on his desk when your precious Auror was passed out drunk enough to be incapable of chaining him to a wall as normal. It was Tom who told me about it. Honestly, _it was Tom_ who is ultimately worthy of the credit.”

“I…” Kingsley said and then trailed off, evidently unsure of how to finish. “He…” Shaking his head like a dog removing water from its fur, he tried again. “I don’t disbelieve you – how else would you have known, unless Tom told you, after all. In fact, that was a question I was meaning to ask. But you have to admit that it’s _strange_ for the man who was Lord Voldemort to behave…altruistically.” Harry shrugged.

“I’m not trying to pretend he’s a good person, Kingsley - I’m just saying that he’s not Lord Voldemort, either,” he said, privately remembering how his slave had broken down in tears at the memory of a man who he’d killed before Harry was born. “In fact, if you asked him, and he decided to reply honestly, he would tell you that he now hates Voldemort and all he stood for.” He decided not to tell Kingsley what he himself had realised – that Tom hated _himself_ just as much for _creating_ the monster. Looking at Kingsley’s expression, he thought that perhaps this time he was actually getting through.

“You’re not a bad person, Kingsley,” he continued, changing the topic abruptly. “You were a good leader of the Order, and you have many qualities that I admire. Since you’ve been in office, you’ve supported many policies which I think will be really good for our world. But I’m warning you now that if you continue making decisions based purely on politics – like you did with using the slaves as pawns against a group of your opponents; like you did with choosing who would take care of Tom in my absence… I won’t be able to support you any longer.” He knew that Tom would probably disapprove of him making his position clear, and understood that in giving Kingsley fair warning, he was offering the man the opportunity to build a defence against him. So be it. Harry was too much of a Gryffindor to hint at things, to speak _around_ the truth until what was truth and what was lie became indistinguishable. If Kingsley turned against him, he would deal with it. Hopefully that wouldn’t be necessary.

Kingsley looked at him for a few moments, his eyes hard and his expression unreadable. And then, as if something had broken, his posture slumped and traces of regret showed around the tight corners of his lips.

“I’m not surprised to hear you say that, Harry, although I wish I was,” he admitted finally. “Honestly…I think this job is getting to me. Wrangling the Order, for all that they seemed like a herd of cats, was exponentially easier than being Minister. Forget cats, this is more like wrangling a herd of ornery _tigers_ , who are constantly clearly on the edge of turning around and eating me alive,” Kingsley ranted, his tone passionate and his hands flying every which way. “And as for my advisors…I can see why Fudge ended up with a big head and completely incompetent – many of the advisors were around during his time and have perfected the art of being both sycophantic and slyly disobedient. To my face they are all ‘yes, Minister’, ‘of course, Minister,’ and then when I actually try to follow up on what they were supposed to do, there are a thousand reasonable-sounding excuses for why it wasn’t done, or why it wasn’t done the way I wanted it. As for the advice they give…you wouldn’t believe their ability to both give advice that seems good, but covers their backs so that if it doesn’t work, it’s _never_ their fault.” Uttering a noise of inarticulate fury, he seemed on the verge of pulling out his hair, had he had any hair to pull out, that was. Harry looked at him, his eyebrows raised and eyes wider than normal.

“Sounds like you need to get different advisors, then,” he commented. Kingsley threw up his hands.

“You think I haven’t thought about it? But what kind of pool do I have to choose from? Anyone with the right kind of qualifications and experience tends to be exactly the same – I’d get rid of this lot and just replace them with identical clones.” Sighing heavily, he continued. “I wish I was just the leader of the Order, sometimes,” he admitted, “even though that meant we were at war. At least then I knew that people were telling me the truth about their opinions. Molly Weasley for one never chose to mince her words if she disapproved of something,” he noted wryly. Harry couldn’t help but chuckle because no, the idea of Molly being shy and retiring was one that was so impossible, even magic couldn’t help to make it a reality.

“Why don’t you just go for a drink with some normal people every so often,” Harry offered. “Get a down-to-earth opinion on what you’re planning. Sort those sycophantic advisors out so they’re actually doing the job you ask them to do and make it clear that you value genuine opinions. Fire them if they’re not doing what you want – after a few examples, I’m sure the rest will get the message and either shape up or get out. You’re doing yourself no favours if you keep going along with them.” Kingsley stared at him for a few moments. Harry raised his eyebrows higher in question.

“When did you get so decisive? And _ruthless_?” he asked, looking slightly impressed. Harry shrugged.

“The war,” he said as a first answer. “And being a master to Tom,” he admitted more hesitantly. Seeing Kingsley’s look, he shrugged again. “When someone’s life pretty much rests in your hands, there’s not much option but to take responsibility for it. And that means being decisive, and yes, sometimes ruthless.” Kingsley regarded him for a few more moments, his gaze searching.

“You’ve changed, Harry Potter,” he remarked quietly. “You’re not a boy anymore, ruled by your emotions; you’re a man with principles and the will to back them up. I respect you for that.” Harry wasn’t sure how to respond, but fortunately he didn’t need to as the Minister leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Your suggestions of building a group of advisors who are not necessarily employed by the Ministry is worthy of merit. Will you be my first unofficial advisor?” he asked, the sudden question catching Harry almost unawares. About to refuse, not wanting to be more involved in the politics of the Ministry than he had already been, Harry paused.

The words Neville had spoken, and that he had repeated in summary went through his mind: if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. If he didn’t agree to this, would he have any right to criticise Kingsley’s decisions later? No, not really. If he abdicated the responsibility that Kingsley was offering him, he abdicated _all_ responsibility. His mind made up, he met the Minister’s dark eyes.

“Alright,” he consented. “But if you want to drink at the Leaky, or something, be warned that Tom will probably be with me.” Kingsley furrowed his brows in confusion.

“Can’t he stay at your house like he is now?” Harry shrugged.

“He could, but we’ve long had the agreement that if I’m going anywhere other than Hogwarts or the Ministry, he would rather come with me to protect me from any threats.” Harry smiled wryly. “After what happened at the press conference when I couldn’t take him with me, I highly doubt that’s going to change anytime soon. So, if you want to come to Grimmauld Place, you’re welcome, but if we drink elsewhere, Tom will probably be there.” Kingsley looked at Harry for a few long moments, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded once.

“Very well. I will think about it and get back to you. Thank you,” he finished, his tone revealing his deep feelings of gratitude. Harry just gave him a half-smile.

“You’re welcome Kingsley,” he replied simply.

XXX

It was Saturday, finally. Harry and Tom walked into the restaurant, Harry leading. He gave the name he’d been given to the Maître d‘ and was quickly directed into a private room holding a good number of people. There were perhaps twenty-five, twenty-six people there, Harry judged with a passing glance. He flashed a look back at Tom, but his slave seemed unconcerned about the crowd, so Harry just took a deep breath and stepped in – if Tom was fine with it, after everything, _he_ should be too. What could be the worst outcome that happened? They’d go home and have to avoid this particular restaurant – no big deal.

Fortunately, there were two somewhat familiar faces there who came to welcome them. Harry hadn’t known the name of the woman and her husband, but Tom’s quick summary of them and their conversation helped Harry at least greet the woman with a smile.

“Hello, Mrs Summers,” Harry said.

“Maddy, please,” she replied with her own friendly smile. “That is, if I may call you Harry?”

“Of course,” Harry replied, the polite smile starting to hurt the corners of his lips.

“Excellent. It’s good to see you again, and Tom too, of course,” she said, glancing over at him.

“And you, Maddy,” Tom greeted her smoothly with a charming smile that took Harry right back to watching memories of him chatting up Hepzibah Smith. Maddy turned back to Harry. “Now, since I know it’s your first time here, a couple of pointers. First, we always have a sign-in sheet, just to keep track of who’s attending, how they found us, etcetera,” she said casually, waving towards the sheet of paper and pen to one side. Harry obediently picked up the pen and scrawled his name, passing it over to Tom. The latter put his first name down, but then hesitated, looking at Harry.

“Put Riddle,” Harry instructed in an undertone.

“But, master…?” Tom objected slightly. Harry cut him off with a quick look and slight headshake.

“It’s still your name, in my eyes. Not like anyone here is going to have a problem with it,” he remarked quietly. Tom bowed his head in acquiescence and quickly finished his name off, the neatness of his handwriting sending a mild pang of envy through Harry. Pushing it away, he turned back to Maddy. A smile still on her face but curiosity in her eyes, she held out two white stickers.

“Put whatever names on these that you’d like to be called while you’re here, and then stick them on. It just helps everyone not have to remember a whole load of names.” Harry smiled at her.

“I can imagine that being useful,” he said, remembering various events, the most recent Ministry ball prominent in his thoughts, where a similar system would have been significantly easier than trying to not offend anyone by forgetting their name. Though how people expected him to remember the names of everyone he’d met for the first time and had only exchanged perhaps a minute of conversation with, Harry didn’t know. It was a relief to know it wouldn’t be a problem here. Quickly writing his first name, he fixed the sticker on his right side, just above his shirt pocket, passing the pad of stickers over to Tom who followed suit. Looking back up at Maddy, he waved at the room.

“Should we just…mingle, or is there some order of events?” She shook her head.

“No order of events. It’s a buffet, as you can see, so go grab yourselves a plate of food each and find a place to sit. Actually…” she hesitated a moment, scanning the small groups of people chatting around the room. “Ah good, he’s here.” Turning back to Harry, she explained, “Luke and Kelly are another Master/slave pairing – I’m sure you’ll get on well. I’ll introduce you there first, and then you can decide what you want to do after that.”

“Thank you, Maddy,” Harry said gratefully, glad that he wasn’t going to have to navigate this unknown situation all on his lonesome. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to crowds of people, but he was much more used to them all already knowing his name, and thinking that they knew _him_. The only times he’d ever been among a whole group of people who had never heard of ‘Harry Potter’ had been in the muggle world, and most of his interaction with that had ended at eleven. Besides, navigating a school classroom with Dudley there was very different again from this situation, so that wasn’t much help.

Maddy led him to a pair sitting off slightly to one side. The man was dark-skinned with equally dark eyes. He had a calm, steady look about him, reminding Harry a bit of Kingsley, at least the Kingsley he had known during the war; not the Kingsley who had so recently betrayed his trust. The woman was blonde haired and blue eyed, and was very well dressed, complimenting her natural beauty. She was wearing a choker kind of necklace, its delicate links embracing her swan-like neck. Glancing around, Harry noticed that no one was obviously wearing a collar, and so he was rather glad that Tom was wearing a scarf to hide his own. It puzzled him slightly, given what he’d heard in the dorm rooms at school about this kind of thing, but he supposed that they _were_ out in public, even if it was a private room. 

“Luke, this is Harry and his slave Tom. They’re new here – I thought you’d have lots to talk about, if you’re game?”

“Sure,” Luke said with a smile. Looking at Harry, he gestured towards the open chairs near the couple, a light of interest in his eyes. “Have a seat – it’s good to make your acquaintance.” Harry smiled at him.

“Yours too,” he said. “As Maddy said, I’m Harry and this is Tom,” he introduced himself and his slave. He and Tom then shook hands with both Luke and Kelly before sitting down.

“So, you’re new here? Just moved?” Luke asked with a friendly tone in his voice.

“Inherited a house from my godfather a few years ago, actually,” Harry told him, “but only really started living here a few months ago. And you?” Luke shared a loving glance with his partner.

“Oh we’ve been living here a good few years, first separately and then together. So, how did you get together? Did you meet through a club?” Harry hesitated, trying to work out how he could be at least partially truthful while keeping all mentions of magic, serial murderers, and the age gap between them out of the conversation.

“No,” he said finally. “It was…a surprise, actually. We’d known each other for a while, but the relationship was antagonistic in the extreme. In fact, you might say that we were mortal enemies,” he smiled as Luke and Kelly laughed, shooting a glance at Tom. His slave was looking at him with amused red eyes, no hint of discontent about his summation of their relationship present.

“So how did it get from that to…this?” Luke asked curiously.

“We were thrown together in a…difficult situation, and, well, things changed.”

“What Master is trying to say, while kindly sparing my feelings,” Tom continued, after flicking a look at Harry to check that it was permitted, “is that I had been a complete and utter arse to him throughout our acquaintance, and it took drastic measures for me to actually realise what I’d been missing all that time.” He met Harry’s eyes and Harry shouldn’t have felt surprised at the deep sincerity there, not after everything Tom had been saying recently; he was slightly taken aback nonetheless.

“That’s so sweet,” Kelly said, delight sparkling in her blue eyes. “A real enemies to lovers story, then?”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, though the thought made him uncomfortable for some reason. “And what about you? How did you meet?”

“Oh we met through the club,” Luke explained. Harry frowned as he tried to remember the name of it.

“Club Forbidden, or something?”

“Klub Verboten, yes,” Luke corrected with a smile. “So yeah, we played together a few times, found we were really compatible, took it further and, a few years later, here we are.” Looking proudly at Kelly, he confided, “The best moment of my life was when my treasure consented to be mine for life.” A moment later, his smile took on a slightly self-depreciating edge. “Though it doesn’t seem as exciting a process as what happened with you and Tom, of course.” Harry shrugged.

“Sometimes simple is good. Merlin knows I’d rather have had less conflict in my life!” he said with feeling. Luke and Kelly frowned at him in confusion.

“Merlin knows?” Kelly questioned hesitantly. Harry fought back the blush, reprimanding himself at slipping like that.

“Just something my family always said. I think it was because they didn’t want to take the Lord’s name in vain, or something,” he laughed slightly nervously, but the two muggles seemed to have bought it. Wanting to move away from the subject, Harry looked at Tom. “Did you want to go and mingle a bit? Or would you prefer to stay here?” His slave considered the question for a moment.

“I’d like to mingle, master,” he decided. Harry nodded.

“Alright. Have fun and behave,” he warned, though was pretty sure Tom wouldn’t need the reminder, especially after Harry’s own mistake a moment ago. Still, the man bowed his head for a moment.

“Yes, master,” he acknowledged and then stood.

“I’ll come with you,” Kelly offered abruptly, standing up. “We have a nice group of people here, but I know it can be a bit intimidating at first. I’ll introduce you around.” Tom looked at her through his lashes.

“That would be very kind of you,” he murmured in a voice that made Harry wonder if he was going to have to stop Luke from getting the wrong idea. He cleared his throat slightly, making Tom look at him. When their eyes met, Harry raised his eyebrows slightly and Tom got the faintest hint of abashment in his expression. A moment later, the two of them were off and joining a group sitting at a table a bit further away. Harry watched as Tom put on his charming mask, soon having the group turning to him and opening up like flower petals to the sun. Harry would envy him for his ease with people if he didn’t know it was as much an act as anything they’d ever put on for the Ministry.

“Sorry about that,” he felt obliged to say, turning to Luke. “He’s too charming for his own good, sometimes,” he remarked wryly. Luke chuckled.

“No offence taken, I promise. I recognise the type. Handsome and charming. Obedient too, if I don’t mistake my guess… I’m not surprised you fell for him,” Luke commented, making Harry chuckle despite himself.

“Handsome, I’ll give you. Charming too – he had the whole school eating out of his hand, if you can believe it. Obedient though…only when he wants to be,” he countered. Luke chuckled in his turn.

“I can believe that. But I think that’s the case for everyone – God knows Kelly can be a handful at times too, though you wouldn’t think it to look at her most of the time. Besides, isn’t that the point? That we can only order them because they wish us to do so?” Harry made a non-committal noise because honestly? That wasn’t what it was like with him and Tom, or at least it hadn’t been. He had commanded and Tom had obeyed because otherwise he would be subjected to ever-increasing pain until he submitted – there had been no desire for direction there. Now…well, that’s what they were trying to figure out, wasn’t it?

That this event was even taking place, though, was strong evidence that people who actually _wanted_ and _chose_ to submit to the will of others did truly exist. And that people who wished to dominate them did too. Looking around the room, Harry hadn’t seen any of the signs he might have expected if _abuse_ was taking place. Not that all signs of abuse were so easily viewed, but…the gulf between this room and the Ministry ball was vast. There, he had seen starved, traumatised victims of the collar and their sadistic masters. Here…if he hadn’t known this was a BDSM event, and seen the evidence with the odd collar dotted around the room, he would have just thought they were happy couples, or friends leading normal lives. His desire to know _why_ increased exponentially, driving him to turn to the man next to him with a question that had been burning in him ever since they had been introduced.

“May I ask you something personal?” Harry began hesitantly. Luke turned to him and raised an eyebrow.

“Sure, you can ask. I don’t promise to answer, though.”

“That’s fair,” Harry conceded. “I apologise in advance if this is offensive, but… Why are you a Dominant? A Master? And how do you stop yourself from…from what you’re doing becoming abusive?” Realising how that last had sounded, and seeing the man’s expression darkening slightly, he hurried to clarify slightly. “Not that I’m accusing you of anything like that, but…I need to know,” he finished looking down, the final words echoing around his head: _to stop_ myself _from becoming an abuser like all the others_. Looking back at the man a few moments later, he saw the burgeoning offence having turned to thoughtfulness. For a moment, he worried that Luke would ask him why he was asking, but the man’s next words reassured him on that.

“I stop myself from being an abuser the same way anyone would – everything I do to Kelly, everything I order her to do to me…it’s what she wants me to do, even when sometimes she says she doesn’t want it, even when it’s something she doesn’t enjoy. But we have our hard limits, and we have our safe words, so if I accidentally pushed her too far, asked for something that she genuinely didn’t want to give me, she would be able to tell me so, and I would stop.” He paused for a moment and Harry gave him the time to think. “I suppose the key thing to keep in mind is that we, no matter the promises that have been made, the contracts which have been signed, have no right to take anything they do not wish to give. Their submission is a precious gift of trust, a gift which they are at complete liberty to withdraw if they do not feel it’s being treated with the respect that it deserves.” He turned to look at Harry. “I mean, I’m sure that you know most of that already – Tom obviously trusts you enough to want to wear your collar; to want your guidance even here in public.” Harry smiled humourlessly.

“My situation with Tom is…complicated,” he explained vaguely. “And made even more so by events in both his and my past.” He hesitated for a moment and then took the plunge, something in Luke’s calm brown eyes giving him the courage to say what was on his mind. “I didn’t have the best of childhoods and…sometimes I fear I’m overstepping a limit that I’m not aware of, and that Tom won’t tell me if I am.” Luke regarded him for a few moments and then spoke, his deep rumble calming and engaging.

“You asked me why I was a Dom, a Master. Coincidentally, I didn’t have the best of childhoods either. Not to say that that is the only reason why anyone gets into this lifestyle – most, if not almost all of this group had perfectly decent childhoods, to my knowledge – but it is certainly why I did. My father was an alcoholic and abusive towards my mother and me. Almost every day, I watched him get lost to the bottle, the caring father I had known as a small child turning into the bitter, angry shell that was what drink made of him. I was determined not to become him, despite him telling me on more than one occasion that I would end up no better. By the time I was able to leave that household, I had become obsessed with control because it was what had been denied me as a child; it was what I had seen as the reason behind my father’s abuse. Everything had to be under my control – what I ate; what I did both at home and at work; my relationships….

“When I discovered the local scene, it felt like coming home. There, I found other people who understood my need to take control, and who had their own deep desires to give it. Finally, I felt like I was somewhere where I could be accepted for what I needed. I experimented a bit; found my niche. In the end, I found that the Master/slave niche was where I felt most at home, most satisfied. I’ve never looked back, but I am a continual student – there is always something new to learn, something new to perfect. I try to be the Master my slaves deserve, and in being so satisfy my own needs. However, the most important thing I learned was that I could only enjoy being in control of the person if they wanted it too, on some level. If not, the situation felt like I was becoming my father, and I couldn’t stand that.

“So I understand what you’re feeling, Harry.” And Harry was convinced that he did, that those dark eyes were staring right through him. It made him feel vulnerable, _seen_ , but there was also a sort of relief in that: the knowledge that _someone_ understood. Even Tom, for all that their backgrounds had not been dissimilar, hadn’t understood completely why Harry was finding it so hard to accept his submission. In fact, it was more that Harry couldn’t accept his own desire to _dominate_. However he’d understood it well enough to convince Harry to come here. All lingering annoyance with his slave for his deception earlier that week faded away and left gratitude in his place – he’d have to do something nice for Tom in thanks, he decided.

“Any advice?” Harry prompted Luke, eager to get as much out of this session as possible. Luke considered it thoughtfully.

“The best advice I ever got when I was still fairly new to the world was this: communication is paramount. Yes, communication in all relationships is important, but in relationships such as ours with the high-risk, high-reward activities in which we engage…it becomes absolutely necessary. Presumably, you did your due diligence before you entered into the contact with Tom, before you even considered collaring him. You spent long periods of conversation with him, ensuring that your desires, your needs, your vision for the future and for the relationship were a match.” Harry worked hard to keep his expression neutral – the knowledge that he _hadn’t_ done that due to the way their relationship had started making him feel uncomfortable. He did, however, make a mental note – just because they hadn’t done it until now didn’t mean that they couldn’t before, potentially, going any further.

“Even so,” Luke continued after Harry didn’t respond, “communication throughout the relationship is, I would say, the most important factor. You have your contract with its hard limits, and you know that your slave can leave if he is not happy with what you offer him. You may even have a safeword for more intermittent use. However, even with all of that, _communicate._ None of us are mind-readers,” he said, though Harry thought wryly that actually… “so make sure you _talk_ to each other. Our slaves have given us power over and responsibility for them - in whatever situations mutually decided; whether that is 24/7 or limited to the home, or all the time except for certain circumstances - but we are still but human. We don’t automatically know their needs at all times, or if there is something in their past which will make the situation more unbearable than intended. It is your responsibility to establish and enable lines of communication between yourself and your slave.”

“Communication is really important, check.” Harry said with a smile. “Anything else you think has really worked with your relationship?” Luke returned his smile for a moment, and then it faded as he carried on.

“Another really important piece of advice that I received when younger was this: believe in the slave mind. In as much as there is something within us that drives us to seek responsible domination over another person, there is something within all those who seek to be slaves that craves the freedom of surrendering power to another. They desire to serve and be pleasing to someone who demonstrates the ability to take that power and responsibility from them, without fearing for their emotional or physical safety. They wish to be used by their Master; they wish to be appreciated by him, to be his valued treasure. If you try to return that power which he has surrendered to you, your slave will not appreciate it. If you deny him the opportunity to serve you - whether that is with his body, with his mind, or with his obedience - he will not be happy; he will not thank you. Have in mind the service you wish from him, and then enforce his compliance consistently.

“As long as you always have in mind the promise that you, presumably, made to him at the beginning of the relationship – that you will always hold his physical and emotional safety as paramount – then I’m sure you’ll be fine. Everything else after that is just about details which can be worked out over time and skills which you can learn.” He paused for a moment, looking at Harry who was sure his feeling of uncertainty was showing on his face.

“I hear what you’re saying,” Harry said slowly, “but…how did you manage to do all that at the start? I want to be the best I can be,” he hurried to assure the man, “but…”

“It feels like a lot of responsibility?” Luke asked with a note of sympathy in his voice. Harry nodded. “Don’t worry about it too much – everyone is the same when we start out. Don’t forget that you are both human: you can both make mistakes. It’s how you _deal_ with the mistakes that is important. As I said before, your slave will resent you if you return the power he has given you to him. I always find that acknowledging the mistake and reassuring Kelly of the fact that I would never intentionally act to harm her is the best way to do so, but it is up to you to decide how you wish to act in such an event. Don’t feel like you cannot review your contract, though. Kelly and I have a time every three months where we review our contract – we find it works for us. You find what works for you. Of course, we deal with any problems as they come up, but this is a time where we agree to be completely open with each other and air anything, big or small, that may be troubling us.” He shrugged. “In the end, it’s your dynamic, so you conduct it according to your vision and both of your needs.” Harry nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, his gratitude heart-felt. “It’s been…great to talk to you. I’ve…I feel like I’ll be a better Master to Tom after this.” It had also highlighted exactly how much he had to learn about this whole thing, assuming that it was what Tom wanted in the first place, that was. Luke gave him a half-smile.

“It’s why we have these get-togethers. Regardless of how experienced someone is, there’s always more to learn and chatting with others at these munches offers the opportunity to get another perspective. God – the number of times I’ve talked to other Doms about a problem I’m having with a sub or a slave… They haven’t always been able to offer a _solution_ , but sometimes just talking about it and getting another perspective is enough.” Harry nodded in agreement, knowing that he was likely to continue coming to these, bringing Tom too if he had enjoyed it as well.

“Do you have any suggestions for places I could get more information? Books, for example?” The man pursed his lips for a moment and then pulled a pen out of his pocket. Taking one of the napkins, he wrote a name and address on it.

“This is a pretty good kink shop. It’s got all sorts of good quality equipment, and I’m pretty sure they have a small library of books on a number of subjects. For a 24/7 Master/slave relationship where you are living together…?” He looked at Harry as if for confirmation. Harry nodded, though wasn’t sure if he should or not. “Then I thoroughly recommend the _Devil in the Details_ trilogy by LT Morrison**. They should have it at that shop, but if they don’t, I have a copy you can borrow. It’s from the perspective of a male Master and a female slave, but I’m sure you’ll still be able to get a lot out of it. Other than that, if you don’t find something at the shop that interests you, ask around here at the next munch – between us, we’ve got enough knowledge to fill more than a small library of books.” He smiled and Harry returned it, tucking the napkin into his pocket.

“Thanks for that,” he said quickly. Luke shrugged.

“No problem. Shall I introduce you around? I’m sure you’d like to meet more people than me and Kelly, though I know we’re the best-looking couple here.” He winked at Harry who couldn’t help smiling. His raised voice on the last sentence had caught the attention of someone a table over, though, and a snort could be heard from one of its occupants.

“Best-looking couple here? Kelly is beautiful, I’ll grant you, but you, Mallison? What were you comparing yourself to – a pug?” Luke let out a chuckle, but didn’t send back a rebuttal, turning to Harry instead.

“Harry, meet Laurence – the most sarcastic bastard you’ll have the displeasure of meeting this side of the Thames.”

“Good to meet you Harry,” Laurence replied with a smile. “It’s always nice to see a new face. Why don’t you come over here – leave Luke to his delusions of beauty all on his lonesome.” Harry looked over at Luke, not wanting to offend him by immediately going to join the others. The dark-eyed man just waved him off.

“Go on, might as well. I’ve rather monopolised you so far, after all.” Upon hearing that Harry just shrugged.

“I’ve rather enjoyed our discussions,” he corrected. “But I’ll happily come to join you,” he replied to Laurence, standing up and joining the table. After introductions were made all around and a good conversation started up, Harry found himself enjoying the event and very glad he had agreed to Tom’s suggestion.

XXX

Entering the shop Luke had suggested to him was another matter. Since it was Saturday, he figured the shop would be open, and it was one of the few times in the week that he could be certain of having time free within its opening hours. Finding the address had been a matter of consulting his atlas of London, and then apparating to coordinates which were not too distant from it. They could have taken public transport, he supposed, but having lived in the Wizarding world for so long, he found he didn’t have the patience for the long journey when he already had so many other things to do.

Tom had made sure to remember a scarf around his neck this time, fortunately, and they walked through the streets together. Harry noticed that his slave stayed consistently half a step behind him. Given that he usually did that, it shouldn’t really have been as noticeable as it was, but after the discussions he had had during that lunchtime… The conversation with Luke had only been the start of it. Even not actually taking part in most of the discussions, choosing to be quiet and listen instead had been immensely informative.

Just being among other people who seemed to have the same desires, the same dreams as him, had been amazing. Or rather, not the _same_ , but seemingly from the same source. Listening to them swap stories and bits of advice, all peppered with good humour and not a little joshing. He’d had a couple more recommendations of books, along with a couple that he thought Tom might want to read.

The shop was, if Harry was honest, rather intimidating. It was just one of a row of houses, nothing making it stand out until you got closer. The only way Harry could tell that they were in the right place was the fact that the door had an ‘open’ sign on it, and there were mannequins in the house windows wearing what had to be fetish gear. Hesitating at the door to the shop, he exchanged a look with Tom. Was it strange that this felt like a step into the unknown? That it felt more important than just a step into a shop? Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and entered, cringing slightly at the sound of the bell.

Inside, it became a lot more obvious that this was a shop and not a house: the interior walls had clearly been taken out, leaving the shop’s floor a mainly open plan area with a staircase free-standing a few paces ahead. The shop counter was next to it and a woman stood behind it. She was slim, willowy, and reminded Harry of Tonks with her short, spiky, bubble-gum pink hair. Seeming to be following the style of the mannequins in the window, she was dressed in leather from head to toe, with enough metal in her face to transfigure into a dangerous weapon.

“Hi, luv, just shout if you need some help, alright?” she said, and upon hearing her voice Harry was a little taken aback. Had he heard the voice without seeing the person, he would have immediately said they were male. Now though…he was completely confused. In the end he mentally shrugged – when he considered being from a world where polyjuice was a thing, as were metamorphamagi…well, who was he to cast stones? As long as he, she, _they_ were happy…. Besides, there was nothing more motivating to not creating a fuss than his knowledge that his Uncle Vernon would have been spitting in disgust at this point – he had made enough comments about ‘nancy-boys’ when he had learnt that some boys took Art for their equivalent of OWLs for Harry to know how much he would _not_ have been willing to let this situation go. So, in Harry’s usual way of doing exactly the opposite of what his Uncle would have done, he just smiled at the cashier.

“Actually, I was looking for the library – an acquaintance directed me here because he said you had a good selection of books.” The cashier smiled.

“Sure,” they said brightly. “Just go up the stairs and it’s directly in front of you. Let me know if you need any recommendations.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied, smiling again politely, and then followed the directions, Tom padding after him without a word. Sure enough, the library turned out to be a set of bookshelves that spanned the portion of the back wall directly in front of the landing. It wasn’t a huge selection, but honestly Harry was happy for that. “If you see anything you think might be appropriate, tell me,” he ordered Tom absently, his eyes already raking the shelves and taking in the interestingly named sections. He wasn’t sure if there were many libraries where ‘impact play’ and ‘rope play’ were by far the biggest sections.

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged. “Do you have any titles you’re looking for specifically?” Harry pulled out the piece of paper he’d copied Luke’s napkin notes onto, along with a few other titles which he’d been recommended at other points of the session.

“These ones were recommended, but that doesn’t mean we need to be limited to them,” he said. Honestly, this seemed to be the best way for them to work out if what Tom had been saying and Harry had been feeling were, in fact, valid in and of themselves, or whether they were merely products of abuse. As a result, Harry was firmly in favour of doing some research. Impulsive as he might have been through most of his teen years, the devastating consequences that had happened at times had curbed those impulses to a large degree, and had taught him the value of research when it was possible. For something like this where the consequences of making the wrong decision could follow them for the rest of their lives… Well, suffice it to say that Harry was determined to be cautious about it.

He started searching through the books on offer, first having to work out their ordering system – it was according to category first, and then by author. The first book that he’d been recommended was easy enough to find, and Harry picked out all three of the trilogy: he had enough money, after all, so why not?

“I’ve found the first one, Tom,” he informed his slave, not wanting Tom to waste time looking for a book he’d already picked out. Upon receiving the acknowledgement of his words, he continued looking through the shelves.

By the time they’d found the list of recommended books – and picked out a few more besides – Harry was ready to go home and dive in, his eagerness surprising him a bit. Before going down the stairs, however, his attention was drawn to the rest of the room. It looked…well, a bit like a strange mix of a torture dungeon with a sex room. Wandering over to one of the walls, he took in the number of items which seemed only designed to hurt – some things that he recognised as whips; others which seemed similar, but had many tails and looked a lot less painful; long, flat items made from a variety of materials – paddles, apparently, according to the label; and many more. These were arranged beside another selection of items which were clearly more designed to bring pleasure and included a vast array of differently-shaped dildos.

“See anything you like, master?” Tom’s soft voice speaking teasingly just behind his ear made him jump – he hadn’t realised the man had come that close. Tom could be as quiet as a cat when he chose, Harry ruminated in aggravation. Turning his head to glare at his slave, he was pretty sure the effect was ruined by the blush he could feel rising in his cheeks. Determined to get the upper hand, he did his best to shift his stance to a more confident one.

“Maybe I’m thinking of how good you’d look laid out with a red arse,” he threw back in the same vein. When Tom was suddenly unable to hold his gaze and the faintest dusting of pink made its way to his cheeks too, Harry felt a rush of adrenaline hum in his ears. Oh hell – now he’d got the image in his mind, it was going to be practically impossible to get it out: Tom naked, lying on the bed with his wrists bound by one of the sets of restraint equipment Harry had also spotted, both sets of cheeks red, moaning in pleasure, his eyes glazed as they had been after the massage… Harry shifted uncomfortably in his trousers and he cleared his throat. “Maybe we should go downstairs,” he suggested, his voice gruffer than normal. Fortunately Tom had been looking away from him throughout that time, so he was pretty sure his slave hadn’t noticed his reaction.

“Agreed, master,” Tom replied, his own voice not quite as steady as normal. With interest, Harry wondered whether _he_ had found an image sticking in his mind and giving him uncomfortable reactions too. He refrained from asking, though – time enough for that sort of thing later when they were in a more private place.

Checking out the books didn’t take much time, although he made a mental note to transfer more funds to his muggle bank account to cover the cost of the purchases. Apparating home from a shadowy spot in a nearby alleyway, Harry and Tom both agreed, without needing to use words, that a reading session in the sitting room was exactly what was needed. Soon, they could both be found there, Harry in his armchair and Tom curled up on the carpet at his feet.

XXX

It was Friday. Harry had finished both the book Luke had recommended and the other two which he’d had suggested to him. Tom, the over-achiever that he was – and the fact that he had a lot fewer other activities on his plate at the moment – had finished not only the three books that Harry had read, but also the other five or so which they had bought. Harry had only managed to flip through the others, though there was one in particular he’d set aside for reading next. They’d both been reading the same books as it made sense that they both had access to the same information.

He knew he had been a bit neglectful of his other responsibilities since buying the books. He had done his Auror training assignments, although had pushed through them as quickly as possible, but he’d done little preparation for his NEWTs. It had been a calculated decision, though – in the last few assignments (even the ones before his trip to the hospital), he’d been earning at least Exceeds Expectations on his papers, if not Outstandings. His practical had always been higher than his theory, so with the combination, he felt pretty prepared. Besides, as important as the NEWTs were, the relationship between him and Tom definitely deserved his focused attention. He leant back in his chair and sighed. Casting his eyes over the notes he had taken while reading the books, his mind went over what he had learned.

Well, he supposed the biggest thing he had had realised was that, like Luke had said at the munch, desiring dominance, desiring control over someone didn’t make him a freak; it didn’t make him abusive. BDSM relationships were built on mutual consent and trust as the critical foundation block, and therefore, by definition, as long as that was still in place, it was no more abusive than any other relationship. Perhaps even less so, since the emphasis of ‘communication’ and ‘honesty’ mean that people engaging in a D/s lifestyle were _more_ aware of each other than people in a ‘vanilla’ relationship. And that…that was a massive relief to him. He knew it would take him a bit of time to truly accept that part of himself – old habits and thought patterns die hard, after all – but he could see it happening, which before he’d actually learned anything about Dominant and submissive lifestyles, had definitely not been the case.

Now with a bit more background to help him out, he was able to actually visualise what his ideal situation would be with Tom. He wanted a partner; a companion. He wanted someone who was as dedicated to him as he would be to them. He wanted someone to stand at his back and support him through the difficult times ahead that would no doubt come. He wanted to do the same for them. He wanted to know that the relationship between him and the other person was as equally precious to them as to him; that he was taking care of their needs as much as they were taking care of his. 

But conversely, he loved the idea of someone servicing him, of Tom _wanting_ to please him and to make his life easier, whether that was by making him dinner, keeping his house clean, or doing the groceries. He had spent so long putting the needs of others first that he longed for someone who would put _his_ needs, his desires first. He thought that maybe that was one reason he loved it when Tom chose to kneel at his feet, even when not commanded – by staying close, he offered himself up to Harry - for whatever Harry might ask of him.

He loved the thought that had been presented in the books of a partner who trusted him so much that they would accept _anything_ from his hand, because they trusted that he would always keep them safe, even if it didn’t seem like it at the time. Especially Tom, for whom he understood all too well the difficulty of trusting others. He had been very uncertain about the elements of pain explored in the books, although had enough memory of science lessons in primary school to accept on faith the idea that he’d read: that pleasure and pain sometimes had very similar reactions in the brain, and therefore somehow one fed the other in the right situation. Nevertheless, he wasn’t sure if it was something that he would even _want_ to pursue.

Bondage however… Harry could admit to feeling rather hot and bothered at some of the pictures in the book, at some of the descriptions. The thought of putting Tom in such a vulnerable position…a position which he was incapable of escaping from, and therefore his entire existence in that moment being dependent on him…yes. He wanted that. And some of the rope patterns he’d seen were _beautiful_. Something inside him longed to learn to create such lovely artwork, but he pushed it back – just because he wanted it didn’t mean it would happen, he reminded himself firmly: life had taught him that lesson well.

He’d finally understood what Luke had been talking about – that the only reason he gained any pleasure out of his relationship with Kelly was because she desired him to do what he did just as much as he did. Harry finally understood the difference between a Master and slave in the BDSM world, and a master and slave in the Wizarding world at that time: one was formed of two willing participants moving in an existence which brought pleasure and satisfaction to both parties; the other was a selfish existence where one party was forced to give, and the other simply took until the giver was destroyed. Any abuser, in fact, could be said to do that: certainly he could see the parallels between that and his Uncle Vernon. A small voice in the back of his head also compared it to the way he had been treated by the Wizarding world throughout his teenage years, but he dismissed that – it wasn’t relevant to the situation at hand, and it risked sending him back into the depressive spiral Ron and Hermione had had a hard time helping him out of in that time after discovering Dumbledore’s plan. That wouldn’t help anything.

For Harry to be able to enjoy his dominance without fearing it, he had to know that he wasn’t taking more from Tom than his slave wished to give. Even in the most extreme version of a BDSM relationship that he’d read about – a Total Power Exchange enduring for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, where there was no safe-word – the two participants still _chose_ to enter the relationship together; they still had the ability to _leave_ if it became unbearable.

That was why he refused to allow the images to completely fill his mind, to engage his desires – he was uncertain of whether his and Tom’s relationship could _ever_ be truly consensual. They had been flung together by Lady Magic, two enemies forced to coexist. They’d come to an understanding of each other, that was certainly true, and the animosity which had at first characterised their relationship had vanished without trace. The basis, however, was as far from consensual as possible.

Sure, Tom could say that it was his choice; he could explain how he was suddenly feeling the desire to submit until he was blue in the face. However, Harry couldn’t be certain of whether that would ever have happened if they had not been forced into this.

He was pretty sure that he would have had to confront his desire to dominate at some point: looking back he could recognise the little signs through the years which had indicated his desires. He had enjoyed leading the DA, for example – had felt satisfaction roll through him as he gave instruction and developed the participants’ skills. He had never been willing to just roll with the status quo – he had always been a rule-breaker, although it had got him into trouble so many times. He had always stood up for what he felt was right, regardless of the consequences it had had to him. He had led groups of fighters, mostly Ron and Hermione, but raid groups too. And he had been respected: people had followed his lead, had followed his suggestions and orders. Merlin, the thought of one day potentially becoming Head Auror and being able to lead the whole department forwards…well, if politics was out of the way, he would find it a very hard vision to push aside.

So yes, he was dominant, and he desired to become _a_ Dominant, though realised ruefully how much he actually had to learn before he could truly fulfil that role for a sub. _If_ he was ever able to fulfil that role for a sub.

Because that was a core problem he faced: while he could see the evidence of his natural leaning towards dominance through his life…he couldn’t do the same for Tom and submission. He knew that Tom had said that he’d simply never realised his desires, that he’d never been able to trust someone enough to realise them. Maybe that was true – how could Harry make that decision for him? – but how could he be sure?

He couldn’t – not with the situation as it was; not with Tom _being_ his slave while he promised _to be_ his slave. He didn’t think that Tom was only saying it to please him, not consciously at any rate. That Tom might be deluding _himself_ in thinking that he was removing illusions from his own mind to make his existence more palatable for him, however, Harry couldn’t ignore.

And so he felt like he was in a cleft stick, with an impossible choice to make. He could give into both their desires, assuming that when Tom said he wished to submit, he was truly speaking from the heart. It was very tempting – he imagined them exploring what satisfied them, both in the bedroom and out of it. But he knew that he would always have the niggling fear that maybe he was forcing Tom into a role for which he truly wasn’t suited.

Alternatively, he could reject Tom’s words, deeming him as unable to truly give consent. He could refuse to shift their relationship, restricting himself to only necessary commands and interactions, as he had done at the beginning. At the thought, though, Harry’s heart hurt because he knew that if he did that, he would completely destroy what they had built together. Harry would be his master solely because of the collar, and Tom his slave because of the same reason, and they would lose the friendship they had built. Somehow Harry feared that maybe that would be more damaging to Tom than potentially trying to force him into a role for which he wasn’t suited.

But what other options were there? They couldn’t continue like this, in limbo. They couldn’t just _never decide_ – eventually a decision would be made for them, by circumstance and by time. They were stuck together for the rest of their lives and they had to define their relationship _somehow_. Harry wondered wistfully what might have happened if neither of them had developed feelings for the other. Perhaps they would have both been able to find satisfying relationships outside their bond, as he had outlined to Tom all those months ago. Somehow, though, Harry couldn’t wish for that, despite how much the current situation weighed on him: his heart knew what it wanted, and what it wanted was Tom.

Therein lay Harry’s greatest frustration: he knew which option Tom would choose; he knew which one _he_ wanted to choose. He knew it was solely his own moral qualms which stopped him from entering into it, his desire to be truly certain that it was what Tom wanted; what Tom _needed_. It was a big commitment, and once entered into, he didn’t know if there would be any way out of it again.

The book he’d read about the Master/slave dynamic had been quite clear in the amount of conversation that was supposed to happen before any contractual relationship should be entered into – Luke had said something similar during his explanation at the munch. It was to protect both Master and slave, and to ensure that they were on the same page when it came to a relationship between them and that all consent was completely informed. Harry didn’t really have to worry about protecting himself – the book had talked about the Master ensuring that his slave wasn’t likely to go to the police with suspicious marks which had happened in a consensual setting, but the slavery situation that Harry and Tom were in _was_ legal.

And that was the main problem. He was trying to figure out how to have a consensual relationship in a setting that was very much _not_ consensual. Neither he nor Tom had agreed to being forced together, and Tom had certainly not agreed to becoming a slave in the first place. If he went too far, if he lost his path, Tom could do _nothing_ to stop him. _No one_ would be able to stop him unless he crossed one of the regulations. Even then, he suspected that few would be willing to punish Harry Potter for victimising the former Lord Voldemort. So really, it was all a matter of protecting Tom, and Harry felt the responsibility weigh heavily on his shoulders.

It had to be his decision, and he had to be right first time. But what was right…well, that was the big question, wasn’t it?

XXX

“Can you honestly say you’d be happy with all of this? For the long term?” Harry demanded suddenly, dropping his knife and fork without finishing his meal. Tom was already finished and had just been waiting for Harry to clear his plate before cleaning up.

“Master?” Tom asked feeling confused at the abrupt question.

“The stuff from the books,” he clarified. Tom looked at him for a moment and then shook his head in confusion.

“You’re going to have to explain that a bit,” he told his master. “Which ‘stuff’ exactly do you mean?” Harry stood up abruptly and left the room. Tom looked after him with slightly wide eyes – was his master upset? No, it appeared he’d just wanted to pick up one of the books from the sitting room (presumably). Flicking through the pages, he paused next to his chair, and then started reading aloud from it. Tom recognised the passage and understood why he had picked it.

“ _A slave may not have any limits other than what their Masters give them or that are specified in the contract established at the start of the relationship. This may be adjusted at pre-set intervals of three or six months, and only then. They cannot refuse service to their Master. Every aspect of the slave’s life may be controlled by the Master. The slave may be subjected to experiences which she does not enjoy for the Master’s pleasure. The slave may not get to take advantage of things like sitting in a chair instead of on the floor, choosing her own clothes each day or listening to her favourite music. These things may serve as a reward to a slave, only given when the Master feels that the slave is deserving of it. The slave has no rights except those given to her by her Master, and the right to leave the relationship, usually a permanent decision_.”+ Snapping the book shut, he dropped it on the table and slumped back into his chair. “You can’t tell me you _want_ all of that, surely!” he exclaimed.

“Master, most of those things are true of our relationship regardless of how I feel about it,” Tom pointed out. “Under Wizarding law, I have no rights, as you well know. I _can’t_ refuse you service unless I want to be punished by my collar. I have been subjected to experiences that I didn’t enjoy, with no recourse to anyone, though most under your hand at least had a _reason_ behind them. Were it not for your changes to the basic rules encoded in my collar, I wouldn’t be able to use furniture; eat or drink when I chose; choose my clothes, if permitted any at all; read books; use magic; _speak_. Not without your explicit permission, at least.” He sighed, meeting Harry’s eyes. “The only reason I can do _any_ of that is because you have given me permission.” Harry massaged his temples and Tom felt a wave of regret go over him that, once again, he was causing his master a headache.

“But we’re not talking about the reality of the situation here. I could understand _that_ – it’s true: I have those powers over you, and you go along with my authority because you have no choice. But this isn’t that! This is talking about you _wanting_ to have that kind of relationship; that even were the collar to be taken off, that you would _choose_ to engage in it. Can you _honestly tell me_ that that is something you want?” he asked with great emotion.

Tom indulged his master and once more gave the question his attention. It was a hard one to answer - questions dealing with hypotheticals always were. The fact was that he had no way out of the collar, save for his death, so what was the point in basing decisions on a hypothetical that could never exist? All he could really say was that he was content with his collar, because it was _Harry’s_ ; that he desired his master’s hand, his master’s rule because he trusted _Harry_. It gave him pleasure to please Master, and when he was displeasing, it felt like a blow to his stomach, or an ache in his heart. He desired to be of service to his master, to know that his efforts were helpful in some way towards Harry’s goals, desires, well-being; whether that was by helping him with his NEWTs, keeping the house clean, or simply being a presence at his feet which satisfied him.

“Would I have chosen to submit to your collar had you never enacted the ritual?” Tom mused. “No, probably not.” Harry looked an odd mixture between triumphant and deflated. Tom continued before he could speak, though. “But then I’d either be dead, or victorious. Frankly, I’m not sure which state would have been worse – for me and for the rest of the Wizarding world,” he commented darkly. It was true – even if he’d been victorious, he wouldn’t have been satisfied; he wouldn’t have been at peace; he wouldn’t have been any less insane or any more human. “As for the collar coming off tomorrow…It’s hard to know what I would decide, but I doubt that I would take it. Perhaps I would choose to change some elements, but I don’t think I would choose to be rid of the collar completely.” Harry was staring at him, his expression disbelieving.

“ _Why_?” he breathed. Tom sighed, once more trying to find the words. It felt like he’d tried to explain this over and over again, and each time he failed to get the message across in a way that Harry would accept. It was depressing, honestly, and he didn’t really want to do it _again_ …but his master had asked him to do so, and so he would.

“Why? Because I much prefer who I am now to who I was.” Seeing Harry’s question written on his face, he hurriedly continued. “I know what you want to ask – why?” Harry nodded mutely and Tom allowed a small smile to touch one corner of his mouth. “Who I was…was just a mess of ambition and drive and a constant yearning for more. I don’t have that anymore. I am who you say I am; I do what you say I do. There’s a peace in that, a peace I’ve never known before. A peace I never realised I wanted. A relief from the guilt that otherwise would threaten to drown me in the acts I have committed; the damage I have done. Under your hand, I know that I am paying for my crimes, and that I will never be allowed to become _him_ again. 

“Then as well, there is pleasure in it. When I know I have accomplished what you wanted me to accomplish, to the best of my abilities, and it has helped you in some way, or pleased you…I feel pleasure. Satisfaction.” Tom leaned back in his chair, and met Harry’s gaze without a single mask or pretence to hide behind. “I’ve never been satisfied before: I’ve always wanted more, more, _more_. And now…I know that I could have had the whole world in the palm of my hand, and I would still not be as satisfied as I am as your slave.” He let that sink in for a moment, sighing internally at the expression on Harry’s face. He was getting through – he hoped – but today wasn’t going to be the day that Harry finally lost all his concerns about Tom’s desire to be his slave.

“So what would be the elements you’d change?” Harry asked him after a few moments of silent reflection.

“The elements I’d change…? It would be the public aspect of it. I…dislike knowing that I must conform to a certain standard of behaviour when out of the house, not because that is what you desire of me, but because of rules set by others. If you wished me to kneel at your side when out in public, that’s one thing – that I am obliged to do so because otherwise we could be castigated by the Ministry…that’s another. I submit to _you_ , not to the Ministry,” he explained, feeling nothing but disgust and revulsion at the thought of being a possession of anyone but Harry.

“You mean you’d happily kneel in public, as long as it was me asking it?” Harry asked incredulously.

“If that was your will, yes master,” Tom answered calmly.

“What if I wanted to hand feed you? Would you want me to do that?”

“Master, _if it was your will_ , yes. That’s the point I’ve been trying to make: I cannot escape the fact that everything we are discussing is already in your power. In fact, I _trust you_ with that power over me, _because_ you already have it, and you haven’t abused it. I trust that you will not push me further than I can bear, and therefore I am content. If it makes you happy, I will willingly submit to anything you ask of me.”

“Fine,” Harry snapped. He leaned back in his chair and propped his foot up on the chair that Draco used to use. “Strip naked and come kneel next to me,” he ordered challengingly. Tom’s eyes widened a bit in shock at the instruction. He had an immediate response of apprehension, the thought of being naked, _vulnerable_ , sending shivers of nervousness through him. At the same time, a shock of arousal also hit him like a lightning bolt, making him half-hard almost instantly. That his master would see his physical reaction as soon as he had stripped off his clothes, added embarrassment into the mix. But Master had ordered him, and he trusted Master. Those two facts were all that he needed.

XXX

Harry watched in full belief that Tom would balk at the facetiously-made order; that he would hesitate until the collar started to punish him. At that point, Harry would rescind his order and they’d go back to eating dinner, his point proven. His assurance took a hit, though, as not more than a few moments after he had given the order – not enough time for the collar to think Tom was being defiant – Tom’s hands went to the buttons of his shirt.

Harry watched in disbelief as he proceeded to strip off his shirt, and then stand up, continuing with his trousers. Upon reaching his boxers, Tom hesitated for a moment before hooking his thumbs in them and sliding them off his hips and down his legs. When he stood up a moment later, after sliding them off his feet, Harry’s mouth went dry at his first view of Tom’s – perfect – naked body. Unable to speak, he watched as his slave folded his clothes quickly and neatly, placing them on his chair, and then moved to kneel at his feet, his head down.

A wave of sensation crashed through Harry – a mixture of wonder, elation and the heady sense of power. That Tom had just so easily followed his command…that he had done it without arguing, without even more than a few moments of hesitation…. It was _amazing_.

“Merlin, Tom,” Harry breathed, his hand coming down to stroke through Tom’s hair. “I can’t believe you did that….”

“Does it please you, master?” Tom asked, his voice almost hesitant. Harry used his hand in his slave’s hair to lift his head so they were meeting gazes.

“Very much so,” he answered sincerely, seeing pleasure flash through Tom’s blood-red gaze at his words. “I could look at you like this all day,” he admitted knowing it was true. The image was…it was just perfect. His slave, naked except for the collar around his neck, looking up at him with trust in his eyes….

“If it is your will…” Tom offered. Harry was tempted, _very_ tempted, but…. In the end he shook his head, his rational side managing to beat away the part of him that was just luxuriating in the moment.

“No, I don’t think that would be wise,” he decided. “But…” and here he hesitated before finding his courage to speak in a slightly uncertain tone. “I would like you to stay like this. For now.”

“As you wish, master,” Tom replied, his own tone warm and sure. Harry didn’t know what to feel about that, only that his calm acquiescence to Harry’s desires sent another shiver of something that wasn’t fear through him. He still couldn’t believe that Tom had done this for him, that Tom would willingly kneel naked in his kitchen without argument, without a hint of resistance….

Turning back to his meal, he quickly finished the now-cold food. It had been delicious as normal – Tom’s cooking skills had improved by leaps and bounds ever since he’d started – but Harry had been distracted for most of it. All of it, really, considering that a naked Tom Riddle was an absolute distraction. That was perhaps another reason not to ask him to be like this all the time – Harry would never get any work done.

Once finished he leant back into his chair, wondering whether to tell Tom to get dressed. He knew he probably should – wasn’t it taking advantage of him to ask him to essentially present himself for Harry’s viewing pleasure? But he just didn’t want to. He knew that after having had it been made very clear that even a humiliating order like stripping himself naked hadn’t been enough to make Tom want to defy him, he’d have to be a lot more careful with his words in the future. Though there was a part of him that wondered just _how far_ he could push Tom before the man pushed back, he refused to engage with that part of himself. Tom apparently trusted him not to push too far – Harry still didn’t understand it, but found that he didn’t want to betray that trust. 

“Would you like me to clean up, master?” Tom’s voice asked. Harry looked down to see his slave’s head slightly raised, though those red eyes weren’t quite at a level to meet his.

“Sure,” Harry consented and his slave rose to fetch his wand from his clothes. Harry couldn’t help his eyes raking over Tom’s Adonis-like body. He was still too thin, but the week of good food had undone some of the damage that Richards had done. Nevertheless, to Harry’s eyes he was far, far too tempting. It was taking all of his self-control not to reach out and caress the silkiness presented to him. In the end, he cleared his throat and averted his eyes, standing up. “I’ll be in the sitting room,” he said before hastily beating a retreat before he did something that he wasn’t sure Tom wanted.

Something like pressing him up against the kitchen counter and kissing him breathless. Something like pulling his back to Harry’s chest so that his hands had free rein to stroke over the skin and sensitive areas in the front. Catching himself in a daydream where Tom’s hands were trapped behind his back, between him and Harry’s stomach, his own hands gliding over his slave’s skin and stroking, pinching, twisting until he cried out in pleasure, Harry forced the images out of his head. Finding himself next to his desk he once more cleared his throat and sat down, pulling his notes to him. Determined to concentrate, he forced all thoughts of naked Tom out of his mind.

A few minutes later, his slave appeared in the doorway of the sitting room and started making his way over to Harry. Looking up, he choked at the realisation that Tom was _still_ naked! Absolutely nothing was left to the imagination and Harry couldn’t help his eyes raking over Tom for a moment, lingering over his chest with its dusky nipples, that flat, pale stomach, and the slightly hard member which dangled in front of surprisingly heavy balls in his groin. When he realised he was staring at his slave’s cock, Harry forcibly dragged his eyes up to meet Tom’s red gaze. He was expecting to see discomfort, humiliation; maybe even fear. It was true that he did see the slightest hint of humiliation, but it was overlaid by a warm look which held within it surprise notes of pleasure and satisfaction. Glancing away, Harry cleared his throat once more, hoping that it would help him get some blood into his head. His thinking head, that is, not the other one.

“You can get dressed, if you want,” he offered, a pang of dismay going through him at the thought of losing this so quickly.

“Do you want me to get dressed?” Tom questioned. Harry looked up at him.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“If you wish me to get dressed, I will. If you wish me to stay like this, again, I will. What do you want, master?” Tom clarified.

“I quite like you like this,” Harry replied, the words slipping out without his permission. He averted his eyes, feeling pink of embarrassment come to his cheeks.

“Then I will remain naked,” Tom told him softly. Walking forward confidently, he knelt at Harry’s feet, facing him. Propping his head up on Harry’s knee, he continued speaking. “Master, although I will admit that your command took me a little by surprise, having you appreciate my body is no hardship. I would go a lot further than this for you, if you wanted me to. I’ve seen you looking; do you wish to touch?” Harry nodded dumbly, feeling tongue-tied.

“Merlin, yes,” he said hoarsely. At that moment, he wanted nothing more.

“Then do so,” Tom encouraged him. “I’m yours – yours to look at; yours to touch; just yours.” As if he was the slave, and the collar was controlling _his_ actions, Harry leant forwards using both hands to stroke over Tom’s face, into his hair, down his neck and over his shoulders. His slave’s skin was even smoother and silkier than he had imagined, its subtle warmth lingering in the tips of his fingers. When Tom shivered slightly, his eyes closing to half-mast, Harry pulled back, clenching his hands in his lap so he wasn’t tempted to continue.

Tom’s eyes slowly opened. “Master, why did you stop? Continue,” he urged. Harry shook his head.

“If I continue, I won’t be able to stop,” he warned. Tom looked at him, those eyes far too inviting – it felt like there was a demon at his feet, rather than a man, with the amount of temptation Harry felt.

“Then don’t,” Tom told him simply. “I’m _yours_ ,” he insisted. Harry had to look towards the fire to keep his control, refusing to do something that could jeopardise their whole relationship just because his cock felt like a rod of iron at the personification of sin kneeling in front of him.

“I don’t wish to,” he said finally, firmly, looking back at Tom and meeting his eyes to show how serious he was being. Tom held his gaze for a moment, disappointment and frustration turning the usually blood-red orbs to a bright scarlet. Then he dipped his head.

“As you wish,” he replied with surprising acceptance given the emotions which had been in his eyes a moment before. Shuffling around, he called a book to himself with wandless magic and settled in his usual position, half-sitting, half-kneeling against Harry’s legs. Feeling in turns happy that Tom hadn’t pushed, satisfied that he had bowed to Harry’s decision regardless of how he felt about it, and strangely disappointed for the same, Harry turned back to his work.

About ten minutes later, he put his quill down, not having written more than a couple of words, his mind too occupied with his slave.

“I know I keep asking this,” Harry started, feeling frustration at himself and his own inability to understand, “but I just...what if I had asked you to strip with someone else present? Would you have done it?” Tom slipped his bookmark in place and closed the book quietly, looking up at Harry when he had set it on the floor.

“Yes,” he said finally, no doubt in his voice.

“Or if it was in a public place like Diagon Alley?” he asked, upping the stakes, convinced that _this_ would be the breaking point.

“The same answer, master.” Still no hesitance, no hint of a lie.

“But _why_?” Harry asked, his frustration coming through in his voice. Fortunately, Tom seemed to realise that it wasn’t directed at him, but at Harry himself. “I hadn’t taken you for someone with an exhibitionism kink!” he remarked almost savagely. Tom gave him a half-smile.

“No,” he replied with amusement. Then, his expression becoming more serious, he continued. “I wouldn’t _enjoy_ being ordered to strip naked in front of others. I wouldn’t enjoy being looked at by anyone other than you, I don’t think. But if it was what you wanted me to do, I would do so willingly, keeping your satisfaction in my obedience as a shield against my fear.” Harry just groaned, simply being unable to understand where Tom was coming from.

The thought of someone being able to do extremely humiliating things, perhaps even extremely painful things simply because it made someone else happy…well, he could kind of understand that – hadn’t he been willing to sacrifice his own pain to keep the Wizarding world safe? Hadn’t he considered sacrificing his life to get rid of Voldemort? Hadn’t he gone into the ritual knowing that if Lady Magic had not considered his reasons to be worthy of her presence, he could end up dead, a squib, or worse? But in a way, that was different too – he’d never really been given a choice. He’d been moulded and formed by Dumbledore and his experiences until each decision that took him deeper and deeper down the path to self-sacrifice had just seemed like a natural continuation of the previous.

But given the choice now…he knew that he would still sacrifice himself for his friends; that he would go to the ends of the earth for those who were precious to him. He knew that he would stand up for what he felt was wrong, despite how unpopular that might make him. But that was because he held his goal as worthy of his effort and his suffering. This wasn’t that, surely? Where was the great value in obedience to Harry’s whims? Tom was definitely aware that Harry could give him a painful or humiliating (or both) command, just because he wanted to, nothing more. Months ago, he’d ordered Tom to crawl through the house because he’d come home in a bad mood and had had someone helpless available to take his feelings out on. The memory made him cringe, yes, but he couldn’t say with certainty that it would never happen again. Was Tom honestly saying that he would be as happy with that as a command, as he would be if there was some great aim that he was working towards? Harry couldn’t help voicing the question.

“Yes,” Tom replied simply. Seeing Harry’s frustration and incomprehension, he continued. “Honestly, master, I don’t feel like this is the big change you seem to think it is – you already had the power and didn’t misuse it, so why shouldn’t I trust you with it? All that’s changed is I’ve stopped fighting you, and I’ve stopped fighting myself. My priorities have shifted from trying to escape to wreak havoc on the world once more, to dedicating myself and my energies to pleasing you. Whether that is pleasing you by crawling through the house, teaching you spells, or helping you take over the world, makes little difference to me. If my actions make you happier, or help you in any way, then I will be satisfied, regardless of my own like or dislike of the activity. That’s the be all and end all of it.” That’s the be all and end all of it, he’d said. And perhaps for him it was that simple, but for Harry…

Maybe he was overthinking things. Maybe he just needed to accept that Tom felt that way, regardless if Harry understood it. But that took him back to his thought process earlier – how much could he trust that Tom truly felt this way?

His thought process was interrupted by suddenly seeing the flames in the fireplace flare green. Adrenaline rushing through him at the realisation that someone was about to either start a floo call or come through, and _Tom was naked_ , he stuck his hand out towards the couch, the blanket folded neatly on its end flying hastily into his hand. Opening it with a flip, he quickly let it cover Tom. Just in time – Hermione’s head appeared in the flames at that very moment.

“Harry?” she called and Harry quickly hurried over so her focus would be on him and not the slave who was covered only by a blanket.

“Yes, Hermione?” he asked, trying to calm his heart-rate which was racing like a horse in the Grand National. She looked at him oddly, obviously wondering what had got him in such a state, having known him far too long to be deceived by the thin veneer of relaxation he’d forced into his voice.

“Are you alright?” she asked with a slight frown. He waved a hand.

“Yes, sure. Just a bit startled at your sudden appearance,” he explained truthfully. She eyed him dubiously for a moment, but then evidently decided not to pursue it, something he was exceedingly grateful for – bulldogs had nothing on the determination of Hermione Granger on the warpath.

“I was just thinking – when do you want to call the next campaign meeting? We had one while you were…unconscious, but were unable to move much further forward.” Harry thought about it.

“Most of us will be pretty busy with the NEWTs exams next week and then graduation in mid-June…. Do we have enough to be getting on with without calling a meeting until after the exams are finished?” he asked, sending his mind back to the last meeting they’d had. Hermione was silent for a few moments, her expression considering.

“Probably,” she said in the end. “Honestly, at the moment my main aim is putting the processes in place which will enable monitoring of the current slaves so as to ensure the most recently passed regulation is upheld. I’ve run into a few snags, so it’s taking longer than I had thought.”

“Do you need any help with that?” Harry asked. She shook her head.

“Not really, I don’t think. I might need to rack a couple of the members’ brains at times, but it isn’t necessary to have a meeting for that alone.” Harry nodded.

“Alright, then let’s say that we’ll have the next meeting after the NEWTs are finished, but that you will discuss specific issues with the necessary people at more casual intervals,” he said decisively.

“Sounds good, Harry,” she agreed. “Have a good evening.”

“Thanks, you too,” he replied and then sighed in relief as the floo call was cut. Heaving himself to his feet, he walked back to his chair and slumped into it. “Merlin, that was close,” he breathed. Hermione would have given him an absolute earful if she had caught him with a naked slave kneeling at his feet. Not to mention that his heart flipped uncomfortably in his chest at the thought of her seeing Tom like that. He wasn’t sure if that was because he knew that Tom would be uncomfortable, or because he didn’t want to share Tom like that with _anyone_ ….

“And you wonder why I trust you,” Tom told him, his tone quietly ironic. Harry looked down at him in confusion.

“What?” His slave shrugged, his gaze not wavering.

“Your first reaction was to protect me, your intention so strong that you were able to do wandless magic.” Thinking about it, Harry realised he was right – his wand hadn’t left the holster on his arm, but the blanket had come to him when he had called for it.

“Huh,” he commented eloquently, possibilities exploding in his mind. He’d have to test this out…. But not right then. Instead, looking down at Tom, he decided that he was done indulging himself. That had been too close for comfort. “Tom, go and get dressed,” he ordered.

“Master-“ Tom started, perhaps to repeat that he would stay naked if his master wished it, but Harry interrupted him.

“I want you to go and get dressed,” he said, looking Tom in the eyes with a firm gaze. His slave held his eyes for a moment before dipping his head.

“Yes, master,” he acknowledged, rising to his feet and disappearing out of the room. When he reappeared a few minutes later, once more fully clothed, Harry felt a sense of satisfaction and rightness fill him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed having Tom naked at his feet; it was just that he couldn’t help an underlying fear that he was taking advantage of the man for his own weakness. Now he felt like he was back in control – of himself and of the situation.

His slave sitting once more at his feet, Harry turned back to his notes, finally able to actually do some revision.

XXX

Tom lay in bed, feeling…hopeful. Their conversation had been, as always, irritating and frustrating, but for once it seemed like maybe they were making progress, finally. The catalyst had been Harry’s facetiously-snapped order. Tom had known at the time that it was a test, but that didn’t mean that his obedience wasn’t real. Facetious or not, intended or not, he would have obeyed all the same. And he thought that maybe his master was coming to realise that too, which was the real breakthrough.

Over the last few days their conversations had inevitably kept returning to the whole matter of Harry’s desire to dominate and Tom’s desire to submit. With both of them reading books about the subject, and having most of their waking moments consumed by thoughts that were associated with it, that was no surprise. For Harry, the books and his experience at the munch seemed to have opened him to the possibility that he didn’t have to be an abuser, just because he desired to dominate Tom. For Tom…it had gone deeper than that.

The books had confirmed the concepts he’d already felt were true of himself. His words to his master had been completely accurate – his priorities had shifted from his whole focus being on accumulating power for himself, to pleasing his master. And yes, he knew that there were certain actions that he would find harder than others. He shuddered again at the thought of stripping naked in Diagon Alley, for example, and being the object of scorn, laughter, and leering gazes. But, as he had said to Harry, as long as he was able to meet his master’s eyes and see appreciation and approval in them, he would be able to bear it.

He’d already done it, in a way, he’d realised. The Ministry ball, the Ministry inquiry… In both situations, he should have felt completely humiliated – that he was being seen as a slave, subdued and obedient. In the latter situation, he had been bound and gagged, led along by a leash attached to his collar. But it hadn’t mattered, because it had been, ultimately a performance put on by his master and him to deceive and mislead the onlookers. The only real difference between what he’d already done and what had been raised earlier was that it would be more authentic. In essence, though, the audience would have just as much impact on him, that is to say none or close to it. In all cases, his actions had been, and would be, for the benefit of his master. And himself, in whatever twisted way it was. No one else.

He had unmade himself once before when he had split his soul for the first time. Upon the removal of the thin glue of anger and arrogance, he had fallen apart at the knowledge of his actions and their consequences. Now it was time to hand the reins over, and let Harry remake him – to make him into someone Harry would feel proud to be with, into someone he would approve of. Tom hungered for that as much as he had once hungered for power, for immortality. And Harry’s actions that evening – ordering him to do something for the sole reason that it would please him…they were a good start.

As Tom let his mind relax and fill with sleepy thoughts and images, one last thought stayed with him: that he wished there was some way to convince Harry once and for all that he _meant_ what he had said. That it wasn’t coming from a position of fear, but from a position of desire. That he had done his research and it had only cemented what he had originally thought. That his actions had led him to this point, but that he didn’t regret the destination, for all that he might regret the journey.

Tom only realised he had slipped into dreams when he was suddenly in a very, very white place. There was nothing around, no one. It was white, just white. He couldn’t even tell if it was a massive space or one that was but a millimetre away from his eyes – the lack of shadows giving it definition defied his attempts to make out its depth. He moved his hands, but couldn’t see them. He looked down to where his legs should be, but again, nothing. What in Merlin’s name…?

“You surprise me, Tom Marvolo Riddle,” a voice said thoughtfully. At least, he thought it was a voice from the fact that he could make out words in it, but it was more akin to an eagle’s screech, a horse’s scream, a wolf’s howl than a human voice. “Not many mortals have the ability to surprise me,” it continued, and as it spoke, a patch of the white brightened until it became painful to look at. The shape made by the light was ever-changing, shifting between different creatures, from what Tom could see. This situation was becoming more familiar to him…

“Lady Magic?” he asked tentatively, and felt a wave of amusement pass over him.

“Indeed. It is pleasing that, this time at least, you recognise your Mother when She speaks to you.”

“Your last appearance was rather memorable, my Lady,” he said wryly, and then flinched, hoping that She wouldn’t take offence at his words. Fortunately, if the feelings of amusement he felt from Her were anything to go by, She was unbothered by his lack of thought before speaking.

“Indeed,” She said again. “Your capacity for redemption is much greater than I had initially anticipated – I gave you a life sentence because I believed that you would never be able to release the parts of you which drove you to destroy My world. However, you have proven me wrong - not a mean feat for a mortal wizard,” She commented. “I find myself perhaps being open to…lightening the sentence.” If Tom had had a mouth, it would have been dry.

“What do you mean?” he asked, not sure what he wanted to hear Her say.

“Perhaps a sentence similar to the others: the years you spent as a cancer in my world being repaid serving it and those within it.” At Her words, something inside Tom sank. Perhaps it was the part of himself that had found contentment, had found _peace_ in his slavery. “My words displease you, do they, child?” She asked curiously.

Tom found himself unable to speak, not because Lady Magic had prevented him from doing so, but because he didn’t know what to say. Lady Magic was offering the chance for his slavery to in fact have an end, albeit long in the future. He didn’t know whether she would count his whole life or whether it would only have been his existence as Voldemort, but either way…assuming his body continued aging, he would be middle-aged, perhaps even an old man by the time he was released…but he would be _free_.

He wanted to chuckle bitterly – wasn’t it just Sod’s law that he would only be offered freedom when he no longer wanted it. His fears all those months ago that when he found a way out of the collar, he wouldn’t want to actually take that step were proven to be true. Because what could he do? Free of the collar after years of being a slave? With the stigma of being the former Lord Voldemort forever attached to him? He would just turn around and beg Harry to put it back on.

And that wasn’t even taking into account the discovery he had made of his own feelings: the part of him that desired to be a slave, that desired to put his master’s needs at the centre of his attention, that sought Harry’s approval, and that shied away from making decisions because of his track record. He imagined how his master would react to knowing he had chosen to be free – he would pull away; would refuse to invest in the relationship out of the knowledge that Tom had chosen to end it, for all that the end was far in the future. He would reject Tom’s desire to submit to him, would turn away his loyalty, because he would see Tom as having lied, of having once more said one thing, and done another. He would lose Harry entirely, the moment he accepted Lady Magic’s offer. And that…the idea of losing Harry, seeing that coldness, that distance in his eyes…watching him find another man, or maybe a woman to be his life partner…no. Tom wouldn’t be able to stand that.

In the end, there was only one answer. It went against everything that he had learnt as Tom Riddle, everything he had stood for as Lord Voldemort. It seemed so counter-intuitive, but at the same time made complete sense. Tom Marvolo Riddle…Lord Voldemort…they didn’t exist anymore. What was left, what had risen from the ashes of who they had been, was him: Harry’s slave, Tom. No more. No less.

“Ah, you have come to a decision, child?” Lady Magic asked, Her voice knowing. Tom nodded, or at least he thought he did – without being able to see his body, it was hard to know.

“I have,” he said, calmness and peace filling his body. Relief too – the relief of knowing he had made a decision that he was sure was the right one. Harry was worthy of his trust. He was worthy of his submission. He was worthy of his loyalty. And Tom would be _proud_ to be his, in whatever way his master deemed acceptable. And he would work for the rest of his days to make Harry just as proud to be his master as Tom was proud to be his slave.

“Then say it,” She urged. “To him.” Suddenly Harry was there, looking very confused. Tom absently noted that he could see his own body once more too, his feet standing on a surface which felt impossibly both hard and soft under his feet.

“Tom?” he asked in bemusement, and then seeing the deity, his eyes went wide. “Lady Magic!” he exclaimed. “What…? Why…?” He shook his head in bewilderment.

“Harry James Potter,” Lady Magic intoned. “As a reward for Tom’s unexpected capacity for redemption, I have offered him an early end to his sentence. Instead of the sentence being unto his death, I have offered to make the condition of freedom the same as those imposed on the others: that once he had repaid the years of damage, he would be released. He has made his decision and is about to give his answer.” Harry turned to look at Tom and one look at his face told Tom that he was convinced his slave was about to take up the deal. Why wouldn’t he, Tom suspected his master was asking himself. Tom, however, simply walked towards his master and knelt at his feet.

“Master, I am yours,” he said, meaning every world, holding Harry’s gaze. “Your to command; yours to possess; yours to hold. Yours until death, and no sooner.”

“…What?” Harry asked after a moment of slack-jawed astonishment, his voice breathless. “You…. You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed. “You…you’re passing up a chance for _freedom_? In many years, but still!”

“I’m completely serious,” Tom told him. “Freedom isn’t worth anything if it means losing you,” he continued. Harry just stared at him open-mouthed.

“Perhaps, I can make it a little clearer,” Lady Magic spoke from behind, Her amusement bubbling in her voice like a babbling brook. “Tom, what if I were to offer you the chance to start anew? I could wipe your memories clean, change your appearance and place you somewhere far away, leaving only the memory of your death in the minds of those around.”

“Merlin, no!“ Tom had to think even less about that one. The idea of leaving Harry so abruptly, of losing everything that he had lived through and learned? Of leaving Harry with the knowledge of his premature _death_? No. A thousand times no.

“There you have it,” She replied, a sense of satisfaction in Her voice. “Now, do you have any further questions, Harry James Potter?”

“Uh…” The situation seemed to have ripped all sense of thought away from him and he just stared blankly at the deity for a few moments. Then, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply – or what passed for it in the strange unreal world they were in – he looked down at Tom, his eyes determined. “Is this truly what you want, Tom? To be my slave for the rest of our lives? I doubt Lady Magic will give you this opportunity again,” he warned.

“Yes,” Tom said immediately, not having to think about it this time. He’d already made his decision. In fact, he felt like he’d made his decision a long time ago. Harry looked at him solemnly for a moment and Tom found himself hoping against hope that he wouldn’t reject him like so many times before. And then a miracle happened – Harry nodded slowly, and his face finally showed acceptance rather than disbelief.

“Alright,” he said surprisingly easily. “But I’d like to make some changes,” he continued, a determined look on his face as he turned back to the brilliant light that made up Lady Magic’s form. “Some of the aspects of Tom’s collar have outlived their purpose, now that you have acknowledged that he has become a different person than the one that committed all the crimes,” he told Her.

“Then what would you change, child?” Lady Magic asked, the note of amusement back in Her voice.

“Trapping Tom within whichever wards he is in, preventing him from even defending himself, punishing or rewarding him automatically for good or bad actions, seem rather useless now that he is _willingly_ committing himself to me,” he commented. “I’d like these to be removed.”

“It is impossible to remove the reward and punishment aspect completely,” She replied thoughtfully.

“Why?” Harry questioned, perhaps a bit foolhardily, Tom thought – this was the personification of Magic itself, after all. Fortunately, however, Lady Magic didn’t take offence.

“The enchantment of the collar is too intricate to untwine two of the most important threads without causing the whole of it to fall apart; that is something I will not permit. However, I can offer you a more in-depth control over the collar. What you order of it will be made possible, regardless of whatever its functions were previously.”

“Does that mean that I can order him to leave the wards of my house, even without me there? That I can allow him the ability to defend himself, even should it cause harm to others?” Harry checked.

“Yes, child of mine,” She replied warmly, though Tom could detect a note of boredom in it. Willing his master not to push things further, he was gratified to realise that the same thoughts had clearly been going through Harry’s head.

“Thank you, my Lady,” Harry replied respectfully, with a small bow.

“To have earned the regard of another to the extent that he would vow himself to you indefinitely is no small thing,” She told him ethereally. “Perhaps now you know the genuine feeling behind his gift, you will now treat it with the respect it deserves and not continue denying what both you and he desire. My sister Fate will be greatly wroth with you should you continue to reject the entwinement of your souls.” With that disturbing pronouncement, Tom found his consciousness fading away, the light dimming into blackness.

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:
> 
> *Not that this is going to make it into the story, but I wonder whether Tom actually had an orphanage to go back to during this period – three evacuations of children in London happened during the Second World War, and it seems highly likely that the children in the orphanage would have been evacuated at least once during this period. Perhaps they were present during Tom’s holidays, but it seems likely that at at least one point, Tom would have not actually had anywhere to go back to during the summer. I’ve never seen this explored, but it might be an interesting premise for a story – Tom going back to find the orphanage empty, or a host family having been arranged for him outside London upon his return…
> 
> ** Note, the publish date of this series is 2011, I think, so technically Harry would have to time-travel to get hold of the books, but since I knew that this was a recommended series (although I haven’t read it myself), and it seemed to fill a hole in the story, I wasn’t going to be deterred by a little detail of publish dates… Sorry to any of you upset by the anachronism ;)
> 
> \+ An excerpt I found on a website about D/s compared to M/s relationships, written by someone who had never experienced a M/s relationship, but had experienced a D/s one. I changed it a bit – some rewording so that it fitted my purposes more – but by and large it is from that source. Can’t remember the site, though, I’m afraid.
> 
> I will also reiterate that this is NOT a BDSM relationship. Honestly, if it taught me nothing else, writing this chapter taught me exactly how little I know about how an authentic BDSM actually looks like – it made it very difficult to write a relatively authentic interaction during the munch. Fortunately, I had help, but it’s still not ‘real’. Harry and Tom have just as little real-world experience as me (fortunately for me), so they’re basically going to make their relationship up according to their desires, whether or not that would fit in with a kink community. In short, please don’t read this fic and think that it’s a good example of a D/s relationship, or even M/s one – it’s not. For that, as I’ve said before, head over to Little Prince, Kneel (and the awesome sequel) by DragonGirl87. If you like consensual Master/slave relationships, they have a couple of short stories with that dynamic. I know that there are many other good BDSM fics out there, but that’s the one that comes to mind. 
> 
> I would also like to make it clear that Harry's fears of exercising dominance to be abuse in any way reflect my own - people who live a BDSM lifestyle are simply exploring a different way of interacting with each other in a relationship as equally loving and caring as any other. And in fact, since, as far as I know, most practitioners interact with a community that's *very* hot on a no tolerance policy to abusers, I wouldn't be surprised if the cases of abuse happening between partners is actually a lot *less* than in mainstream relationships. DragonGirl87 was disapproving of Harry asking that question to begin with, disliking the idea of BDSM being associated with abuse in any way, but I know that many people (some in my own family) *do* look at BDSM and immediately think 'abuse'. For Harry, as open-minded as he tries to be, but coming from his own troubled childhood and the knowledge of what slavery is like in the Wizarding world, it's something he had to ask.


	13. Part 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some things are finally resolved and much fluff is had. 
> 
> Aka, finally, Harry and Tom have managed to find their way to the same library, are reading the same book, and are pretty much on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first of all, sorry for the delay. On the other hand, here's a nice big chapter that completely defied my normal range of 20k - 30k? Honestly, life's pretty busy at the moment, so I'm not able to write as much as when life was a lot quieter. In short, I might not be able to keep to my previous schedule of an update every 5-7 days, but I shouldn't take longer than two weeks, regardless. 
> 
> On another note, I've changed the chapter count again! I thought I'd get further in this chapter than I did, but then Tom and Harry insisted on having a deep, in-depth conversation (which they really needed to do, frankly) which took up a good 10k all by itself. So yeah, it's probably still two more chapters. Although, who knows what will happen with the rest of what I have planned...
> 
> Please note that there is EXPLICIT content in this chapter (don't tell me at least some of you haven't been waiting for it ;) ). I have marked the scene which is nothing but explicit content, although there are small sections here or there of more erotic images which are not marked. If you don't want to read the very explicit scene, the scene from Tom's POV afterwards summarises the important points in...a bit less detail. But still with *some* detail. 
> 
> I have also tried to insert an image of how I've been imagining Tom Riddle (only with red eyes). If you can't see it embedded in the text (because I'm not sure I've succeeded), the image is here: https://www.deviantart.com/littlechmura/art/Harry-Potter-young-Tom-Riddle-639352060 
> 
> Enjoy!

XXX

Tom had just woken up, lifting a hand to his forehead, when a knock fell on his door. Before he could call out permission to enter, Harry had already opened it. He didn’t come in, but just stood in the doorway, looking a bit wide-eyed.

“Did that really happen?” he demanded breathlessly. Tom just nodded in dumb astonishment, the dream all that he could think about. Harry stared at him and then slumped against the doorpost. “I…You…” he shook his head as if that would help the words order themselves. Taking a deep breath, he started again. "We need to talk,” he said seriously, meeting Tom’s gaze. “When you’re dressed, we’ll meet in the sitting room. Get yourself a sandwich first if you’re hungry, though,” he instructed.

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged. Harry hesitated for a moment, looking at him with strange expression. Then he patted the door frame and pushed himself fully upright, turning around and disappearing. Tom didn’t waste any time in getting up, having a quick shower, throwing on some clothes, and then going downstairs. A bit peckish, he quickly finished a yoghurt from the fridge and finally proceeded to the sitting-room as ordered.

Harry was already there, in his favourite armchair and staring into the fire. Tom walked inside without any hesitation and knelt at his feet, facing him as was generally preferable when his master wanted to have a discussion. There, he waited patiently until Harry looked at him. It didn’t take more than a moment, but when Tom’s eyes met his master’s gaze, he saw a hint of guilt.

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry told him quietly. Tom couldn’t help his confusion from making it into his expression.

“Do what, master?” he asked.

“ _That_ – kneeling, calling me ‘master’. Given that you _chose_ to stay a slave for the rest of your life, despite being offered – twice – the opportunity to be rid of your collar, I don’t think I need to worry about you…getting an attitude. That removes the motivation I had when I originally ordered you to follow those rules.” Tom thought about it, played with the idea of calling his master by his first name and sitting at his level, in his presence.

“If it’s acceptable to you, master, I’m happy to continue as I am.” Harry frowned in incomprehension.

“What?”

“If that’s what you want, of course,” Tom added. That didn’t alleviate the confusion at all.

“But why? Kneeling’s pretty uncomfortable, isn’t it? And calling me ‘master’…wouldn’t you rather call me ‘Harry’?” Tom shrugged.

“I’m used to the kneeling by now. I think my legs have mostly adapted,” he half-joked with a smile, though Harry didn’t smile back. Honestly, he thought his magic might have actually helped him out – the discomfort he’d originally felt when kneeling for long periods of time had mostly gone. It was only when he had to do it for hours on end without being able to shift position that it really became a problem – _thanks Richards for teaching me that_. “As for calling you ‘master’…” he sighed, continuing seriously. “While I wouldn’t mind calling you ‘Harry’ at times, particularly when we’re in a situation like a discussion about something, or I’m teaching you, most of the time I’ve actually come to like calling you master. It reminds me of who I am; what I am. It reminds me that you have taken control of me; that I’m safe under your rule – from myself as much as anyone else.” He paused for a moment and then continued. “It reminds me that I’m paying for my crimes…” Trailing off, he stopped there, wondering whether Harry would _finally_ accept his desire to submit, or whether it would be just another example of them not understanding each other.

Harry looked at him, his expression unreadable for a long time. Then he sighed and ran his hands through his hair as he leant back and stared at the ceiling.

“The slave mind,” he murmured, as if to himself. Tom remembered the term from one of the books they’d been reading, and found he couldn’t disagree. Harry looked back down, and leant forwards once again. “Alright,” he said, and his voice was full of determination. “Here’s what we’re going to do. It’s Saturday, so we have the whole day to do this.” Tom frowned and couldn’t help himself from interrupting.

“What about your NEWTs?” he asked, slightly disapprovingly.

“Damn the NEWTs,” Harry snapped, glaring at him. “This is more important.” Slightly wide-eyed at his master’s vehemence, Tom just nodded in acceptance. “Right,” continued his master, his tone back to the lower level it had been earlier. “As I was saying. I’m going to accept that you, for whatever reason, have genuinely decided that you wish to submit to me. The fact that you chose to stay with me as my slave when you had two other options to choose between - one of which where you wouldn’t remember anything about all of this and would be somewhere else completely different - is enough convincing for me.” Finally! Tom wanted to either crow with triumph that it had happened, or scream with frustration that it had taken so long. Honestly, if his stubborn adherence to his principles hadn’t been one of the things which Tom appreciated about his master, he was sure he would have gone stark-staring mad by this point.

“Thank Merlin,” he confined himself to saying with feeling. Even that got a half-hearted glare and an eye roll from Harry, but the lack of any verbal disagreement spoke volumes.

“Anyway. I think that we need to go back to basics,” Harry told him, no hint of humour lingering around his eyes or mouth. “This is too important to mess up by being a Gryffindor, as much as I hate to say it,” he admitted with a sour twist to his lips. Tom agreed entirely – they would be together until death, so it had to go right first time. “So, you and I both need to take a day to think through _carefully_ what we want out of this, both thinking about visions of the future, and how we want it to look like in daily life. Maybe even write it down. Then we need to discuss it, and come to an agreement of how we’re going to make this work.” He hesitated for a moment, glancing at the pile of books on the side-table.

“When I read those books, I liked some of what I saw, and I disliked some of it too. Honestly, I think we need to find our own path here. Neither of us knows enough about what is expected of a consensual Master/slave relationship, and we don’t have that anyway. Not in the same way, at least. So we’re just going to have to muddle through it ourselves, doing what suits us. Whether that would suit anyone else, or even be _approved of_ by anyone else, doesn’t matter. In the muggle world, we would probably be looked at in askance because of the whole ‘legal slavery’ aspect, and your inability to give true, indisputable consent.” He held up a hand as if knowing Tom was about to burst out with something unwise, the sudden swoop of fear that Harry was about to once more go back on his acceptance of Tom’s submission prompting angry words to come to his tongue.

Fortunately, his next words belied that. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to reject your desire to submit to me again – the fact that you made the choice last night to stay with me for the rest of our lives is enough consent for me. But it’s true that some people would say that, without being apart from me for a while, you can’t truly choose. Well, that’s not the situation, and trying to make lemonade out of apples is just going to cause head and heartaches,” he said with feeling. Tom couldn’t agree more! But at least his master seemed to understand where he was coming from a bit better this time. “In the magical world we would _also_ be looked at in askance, but from the opposite direction – the fact that very few people would either understand or care that you had changed, and would therefore just see you as avoiding your due punishment. So fuck both of them!” he exclaimed crudely.

“We’ll do it our way. I know that some of those books would say that I should have the vision for the future and that you should either go with it or leave, but…well, first of all, it’s not possible for you to leave. Second of all…I don’t think that’s me. So we’re going to talk. We’re going to hash out our relationship together. And then later, if one of us isn’t happy, we’re going to deal with it however is necessary. OK?” he asked, almost defiantly. Tom couldn’t help a half-smile from quirking one corner of his mouth up.

“As you wish, master,” he replied, filling his voice and gaze with the respect and pride he felt inside.

“Alright, good,” Harry said quietly, an odd smile playing across his lips. “Let’s get to it. You go to the library and I’ll stay here. When you think you’re ready, come down and tell me,” he instructed. Tom stood and, after bowing his head a moment more, he turned and left the room, heading for the library for a good thinking session.

XXX

It was almost six o’clock before they came back together. Harry had finished a bit earlier than Tom, but he had easily found tasks to occupy his time – as much as he didn’t regret pushing revision to one side to deal with their relationship, it didn’t mean it didn’t need to be done at some point. He had a feeling he’d be having a late night and a day with his head in the books tomorrow…

Now though, his slave had entered and was kneeling in front of him, in the same position as he had been that morning, all those hours of thought ago. Harry shook his head.

“We’re not having this conversation as master and slave,” he decided. “In fact,” he said, standing up. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll want to make some notes as it is.” Tom acquiescing, they headed down the corridor and then down the steps to the warm and comfortable cooking and eating space. Sitting down, Harry noted in satisfaction the different feel to the atmosphere. They’d been master and slave too often in the sitting-room to easily shrug off their roles; here, although there had been elements of that, they’d also argued and debated, building a friendship with shared vulnerability and time spent over food. Here, Harry had complained about his day and Tom had made him laugh with sarcastic comments made about the Ministry or Hogwarts. Here, Tom had taken care of Draco and Harry had relieved him of his duty. Here, Tom had yelled at him for inviting Snape to their house. Here, Harry had comforted Tom after he’d come back from Richards. And it was here that Harry was determined they would create the foundations of a relationship which would, hopefully, last decades.

“Alright, you start,” he told Tom, once they were settled with a piece of parchment and self-inking quill on the table in front of them.

“Very well, Harry,” Tom replied, and Harry was glad he hadn’t used ‘master’. He appreciated what Tom had said about that this morning but…in this context, it seemed _wrong_ to hear it. Linking his hands together and placing them on the top of the table, the red-eyed man looked steadily at Harry. “I feel like I’ve already expressed what I want from this relationship, but for the sake of our discussion, I will repeat myself. I want to be your slave. I want you to give me instructions, orders, commands. I want to know what you expect of me, and I want to know that if I step out of line, you will pull me back in. I want the safety that comes of having a set of rules to follow; I want the freedom from guilt that I feel when I am pleasing you. I want to repay the debt I owe to you by serving you to my best ability, although I know it will never be cleared. I want to earn your regard, maybe even your pride in me and my service. I want to feel that my obedience is appreciated – that _I_ am…valued.” His face twisted slightly, as if the last few words had been difficult to get out, before finishing with a final thought. “I want to be your possession…but I want to be your _prized_ possession because of my obedience and your use of me.”

Harry nodded slowly, doing his best to accept the words at face-value. After Tom had chosen to stay with him for the rest of his life, it was hard to deny that he truly believed he wanted this. While Harry could question his motivation, and his ability to give consent while still in the situation, the fact of the matter stood that Tom had been given an out – two different outs, including one where he might never see Harry again – and he had refused them. So that was the situation, and that’s what they would have to deal with. He’d come to the conclusion earlier that if he continued to allow his doubt to guide his actions, they would never get anywhere, and that wouldn’t be satisfying for either of them.

In the end he’d decided that, given the situation, he needed to trust in _Tom_ and the belief that this wasn’t just an impulsive decision, but one with careful thought behind it. Although Voldemort had been known occasionally for his impulsive decisions – coming after Harry after hearing the prophecy being a case in point – Tom Riddle had always seemed to be someone who thought actions through carefully. Since becoming a slave, the only action Harry was aware of that hadn’t been carefully thought through had been that incident in Diagon Alley, but there were extenuating circumstances there. So, why would he have leapt into a decision like this with any less thought than he paid to deciding what to make for dinner?

“Alright,” he said. “Did you think about what you imagined our relationship to be like in a few years’ time? Friends? _Lovers_? Did you consider what you wanted to become – whether you wanted to get a job, or do some more study?” Tom looked at him with an unreadable expression for a few moments before answering.

“I thought about it,” he started, and then shook his head. “But in the end, I decided that it’s not for _me_ to decide.” Harry started to speak, but Tom held up a hand, his eyes requesting the chance to finish his thought. Settling back in his seat, Harry waved at him to encourage him to continue. “Merlin knows I’d like to add sexual intimacy to our relationship, but it has to be something you want. I know I’d find it difficult to accept you taking a different partner one day, but would make myself come to terms with it eventually because it would be so much harder to live with myself if I knew you had sacrificed your happiness for me. You’ve already sacrificed so much – too much – because of me. This is my way of redressing the balance. I will do what you want and need me to do, and I will _be_ what you want and need me to be. I know you said you didn’t want to be a Master like in one of those books, dictating the vision for both of us, but…honestly, I have had a chance to live my vision, and you know how that ended up. I know I will be content with any vision of us, as long as it is what you want.” Silence reigned for a moment.

Harry wasn’t sure what to say. He’d been prepared for a lively debate, prepared to defend why he thought they should go in certain directions and not others. This easy concession, then, seemed such an anti-climax. Alright then. What was his vision? An image came to mind, a product of his thoughts that afternoon and over previous days. Forming words to explain it was harder, but he thought about it with a strong pang of desire that threatened to make his voice shake with its force.

“I don’t want a shy or retiring slave who puts my needs to the fore at the expense of your own - I would far rather we find a way to fulfil _both_ of our needs. I don’t need you to keep your eyes cast down to the floor at all times, or to have to ask permission to speak. I _definitely_ don’t want the slave that the basic rules of the collar would have made of you – a trembling, mindless creature. I appreciate your mind, your keen intelligence. I appreciate your power and your skill at duelling. I appreciate your teaching skills and the debates we have. I would never want to lose any of that.” He paused for a moment and this time it was he who held up a hand when Tom would have spoken.

“I want an equal, a partner. I’ve never had anyone who could protect my back as I strode ahead,” he said quietly, his eyes looking back. “Ron and Hermione tried, but for one reason or another, when it’s come down to the final battle…it’s almost always been me there on my own. At the end of the obstacle course in First year. In the Chamber in Second year. The graveyard in Fourth year. The atrium in Fifth year – until Dumbledore, of course. The ritual.” He sighed. “For once, it would be _nice_ to have someone else with me. Someone I can trust to guard both me and himself from the back, as I confront whatever it is we’re facing. Whether that’s a physical battleground, or a political one.” He looked directly at Tom. “I want that from us.” Tom’s eyes were warm as he met Harry’s gaze.

“Then that’s what I will be,” he replied quietly. “I will care for the things that you don’t have the time or energy to do, fighting as you are. I will protect your back from those who would attack it, figuratively or literally: I will give you advice on how to avoid political traps; and will be your wand if it comes to a fight. I will be your shadow and no one will ever creep past me to hurt you.” The words rang of solemnity and promise. Tom’s magic shimmered around him, and Harry could have sworn he could actually _see_ it, sparkling like glitter in the area around them.

Reaching out, he took Tom’s hand, the unfamiliar gesture nonetheless feeling completely _right_ in that moment. Feeling its smooth skin, marred occasionally by calluses from use, he didn’t withdraw it even when the intense feeling of static ebbed slightly.

“Only as long as you swear to fight as strongly in your defence,” he murmured seriously, capturing Tom’s eyes as he had captured his hand. “Until I am able to protect your back as you do mine. We can face any consequences together, except for those where you are dead.” Tom’s eyes revealed his thoughts, Harry having come to know him well enough over the past few months to read his expressions like a book, unless he was intentionally concealing them. “Yes, Tom,” he emphasised. “Just as strongly.”

“But master,” Tom rebutted weakly.

“No,” Harry interrupted him firmly. “No. If you wish to be my possession, my _prized_ possession, then you will protect what is mine, just as much as you would protect me.” Tom stared at him, open-mouthed for a moment, before closing it and nodding.

“Point,” he conceded. “I will take whatever actions I can to avoid exposing myself to any irreparable harm.” Figuring that was as much as he was going to get, Harry nodded in partial satisfaction, and let Tom’s hand go.

“Good. Now, my vision…” He stared at the length of the table, remembering meals had here with the Order, and then with just Ron and Hermione before they were forced to leave, or risk being caught. “I want to change things,” he said quietly, his thoughts of the day filtering back into his mind. “The Ministry. The Auror department. Our world. There are so many injustices, so many people and creatures who are disadvantaged, not because of who they are, or what they can do, but because of their circumstances of birth.” Looking at Tom, he felt his face set in an expression of determination.

“I want to aim for Head Auror. I want to do what I can for all those who can’t do it for themselves. If I’m going to be famous, I want to use it for something that, when I get old, I can look back on and be proud. And if that means aiming to become Minister for Magic one day? So be it. If you’re by my side, being the Slytherin to my Gryffindor, I know I’ll succeed.”

“Always, master,” Tom promised, his tone warm. “You’ve earned my loyalty, Harry. You, and you alone. I can’t see that changing anytime soon,” he finished, a wry note creeping into his voice. Harry couldn’t help chuckling slightly in disbelief. Seeing Tom’s questioning look, he shrugged, trying to find a way to put his feeling into words.

“Isn’t it strange?”

“What?”

“This,” Harry replied, gesturing with his hand to encompass the two of them, the table, and then the rest of their surroundings. “You. Me. This whole thing.” Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. “Twelve months ago, Ron, Hermione and I were still on the run. I’d convinced them I had a plan for defeating you, but that them not knowing was essential to its success. Which it was – Hermione would have never let me do that ritual if she hadn’t realised what I was doing too late to stop it. You were the uncrowned King of the British Wizarding world, ruling with a reign of fear. And now look at us.” He chuckled again, not sure if the feeling bubbling up inside him was relief, hysteria, or complete and utter confusion that such an outcome was possible. Tom waited patiently for him to finish and then shrugged.

“Perhaps this was always the way it was supposed to be,” he suggested. “The prophecy said that you had the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. What is Lord Voldemort if not vanquished? His following in collars, his horcruxes reassembled and his immortality gone, him bound in chains of service and _liking_ it? Wanting it?” Harry hummed in agreement, but decided to change the subject a little: for all that he’d been the one to bring it up, they’d had enough of that kind of talk over the last few days. Though, the thought that the prophecy had been meant for this…. He tucked the idea away for later consideration.

“Speaking of wanting it, let’s get down to details. We’ve talked about the overarching vision; now let’s think about the way to bring it about. First, limits. What do you _not_ want me to do to you ever? Or be ordered to do?” Tom leant back in his own chair and sighed, his position now a reflection of Harry’s own.

“I thought about this for a long time earlier today,” he admitted. “I knew you’d probably want some. But…the problem was, I couldn’t think of anything that I wouldn’t want to do, not even if it pleased you.” Harry stared at him.

“ _Nothing_?” Tom shook his head, and then paused.

“Nothing that I could see you ever wanting to do, that is,” he clarified Harry shook his head slowly, disbelief filling him.

“You really couldn’t think of anything?”

“No. I mean, I thought of things that I wouldn’t want to happen to me, sure. I wouldn’t like to be tortured with either the Cruciatus or _punire_ until my mind snapped. I wouldn’t want to have my bones broken and be left to heal naturally, while still forced to do my normal tasks. I wouldn’t want to be rented out for use as a common whore, either,” he said, looking directly at Harry whose expression was completely horrified. “And that’s why I couldn’t think of anything to put as a limit,” Tom continued, gesturing at the expression Harry was still sporting. “Because would you do any of those things to me? Would they please you?” Harry felt nauseous at the thought.

“Merlin, _no_ ,” he replied vehemently. Each of those images had been horrifying in different ways, and he couldn’t imagine himself ever finding pleasure in anything even _remotely_ similar. The last one in particular made him feel like he wanted to hurl at the thought.

“There’s your answer,” Tom replied, a satisfied note in his voice. “In addition,” he continued, the satisfaction sliding off his face, “I guess that this isn’t the only opportunity for me to voice any hard limits?” He finished it off with a slightly questioning lilt, as if slightly uncertain.

“Of course not,” Harry reassured him quickly. “In fact…” he hesitated a moment. “I want to…I know you can’t actually say ‘no’ to me, but…I want to give you a way.” He bit his lip for a moment. It had been a thought that had kept coming back to him throughout that day – if the situation was non-consensual by default because of his slave’s inability to _not_ consent, why not give Tom a way to _withdraw_ his agreement? “I want you to have a safe-word,” he said seriously, leaning forward. “And I want you to use it if you need to. I _promise_ ,” he started, the full force of his focus behind his words in that moment, “that if you use your safe-word, I will stop what I am doing and we will talk about it. That I will never punish you for using your safe-word. That if you put something as a hard limit, I will respect that. In return, I want you to promise that you will use it if you need to.” After a moment of careful observation, Tom reach out to grasp Harry’s hand the way he had done to Tom earlier, staring him directly in the eyes with a deadly serious expression.

“I thank you for your care for me and my well-being, master, for all that I do not deserve it,” he said, his words weighted with sincerity. “I promise that I will use my safe-word if necessary, and only then,” he vowed. Abruptly, the feeling of magic in the air was back, making them gasp at the sudden rise of static. A jolt seemed to run up their arms from their joined hands, striking them both in the chest and making them gasp again. Letting go, Harry stretched his hand, still feeling the aftereffects of something that had felt like he’d grasped a live wire.

“What was that?” he asked in confusion. Tom didn’t answer for a moment, but then spoke quietly in tones of awe.

“I think that was a spontaneous magical vow, master.” Harry frowned.

“Like an Unbreakable Vow?” he asked. Tom shook his head.

“An Unbreakable Vow isn’t spontaneous – it’s not wand magic, exactly, but it requires the consent and intention of all parties to work. No, this is more like a life debt. In a life debt, the magic in the person saved decides that it truly owes a deep debt to the saviour, and it binds to their magic. It can be passed down generations because the core of the child is often fairly similar enough to the core of its parent for it to work. In this case, our magics clearly decided that the reciprocated vow was important enough to bind. I doubt we _can_ break these – our magic simply won’t let us.”

“You mean it will kill us?” Harry asked, alarmed. It wasn’t like he was intending on ignoring Tom’s safe-word, but Tom had proved himself remarkably _bad_ at knowing where to stop. Tom shook his head again.

“Probably not. It will probably just, in your case, actually prevent you from continuing the activity. In mine…I don’t know. Perhaps it will force me to speak the word. Or it might create the word in letters of fire.” He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s worth worrying over, Harry. It’s done, and we will never feel the effects unless we try to break the vow.” A moment later he snorted in amusement.

“What?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows at the man. Tom just smirked a little.

“Given how much Lady Magic has intervened in our relationship, I suppose it’s not surprising that she’d bless _this_.” Harry couldn’t help laughing in response because, honestly, the most recent appearance of the deity had definitely smacked of Her getting annoyed with their – read, Harry’s – inability to make a decision without Her intervention.

“You might be right,” he conceded, still with a smile playing around his lips. “Alright, well, at least I know that _that’s_ done, at least. What do you want as your safe-word?”

“Pineapple,”* Tom answered, sounding absolutely certain about that. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“What did that fruit ever do to you?” Tom scowled at him.

“It’s not _fruit_ ,” he said with feeling.

“What is it, then?” he asked in amusement. This seemed to be shaping up into one of the dinnertime debates they had become known for. Or at least, not _known for_ , since no one had witnessed them – apart from Draco, a few times – but...maybe ‘used to’ was a better description.

“It’s a murder weapon waiting to happen!” explained Tom and Harry couldn’t help laughing. Firstly because the idea of a _pineapple_ being any more of a murder weapon than anything else, and secondly because of the level of affront in Tom’s voice.

“Explain?” Harry invited when his laughter had stopped. Of course, by this time, Tom’s scowl had turned into a proper glare.

“Well, think about it!” Tom exclaimed. “Its leaves are spiky – probably could put your eye out if you swung it around carelessly. And if you swung it around by its leaves, its body is probably is hefty enough to knock someone out. Then it’s prickly all over its actual body, again, trying to cut your fingers to bits. Next, you open it, hopefully without cutting yourself because it’s not the easiest to thing to cut without doing yourself an injury. Inside it has a type of enzyme that actually _eats_ protein, i.e. the thing your cell walls are made out of. Why would you want to eat something that was trying to eat _you_ at the same time? And all of that for something that doesn’t even taste nice, and has the kind of stringy texture that sticks between your teeth? No _thanks_.”

‘Why don’t you say how you _really_ feel?” Harry asked with laughter barely held back in his voice. Tom huffed at him, but eventually allowed a smile to touch the corners of his mouth. “Now I know why you never buy it.”

“If you want me to buy it, master,” Tom started, a long-suffering note in his voice, “I’ll do so. For you. But only then.” Harry shook his head.

“Nah. It’s not something I especially like. I mean, I don’t have the deep-seated hatred for it that you apparently do, but I’m not all that keen on it either.”

“Good,” Tom said in relief, clearly glad not to have to suffer through the hated fruit.

“Glad you approve,” said Harry, still amused. “Are you sure you don’t want forcing you to eat pineapple to be one of your limits?” he asked, semi-seriously. Tom just glared at him playfully. Harry sobered up a little. “But thinking back to what we were discussing. Alright, you don’t want to put any limits at this point. Yes, you can add limits to the list later, as they come up. Just, one thing. Make sure that you _do_ tell me about anything you think is likely to compromise your safety in some way – whether that is physically, emotionally, or otherwise. No matter how much you think I want to do it. Alright?”

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged, dipping his head briefly. Harry looked at him with his eyebrows raised. “Harry,” he corrected a moment later, looking away. Harry frowned.

“You keep doing that,” he observed. “I would have thought you’d want to take advantage of the situation.” Tom shrugged.

“It’s normal for me,” he said simply.

“But when we’re having a discussion like this, doesn’t it feel strange? I mean, we’re discussing the terms of your slavery, and you’re already calling me master?” Tom shrugged again, his usual elegant movement.

“To me, this discussion is more of a refinement of the terms that I am already subject to, than a beginning. I know that your preference is for me to treat this as if we are not already master and slave, and so I’ve been trying. It’s hard though,” he admitted, “and I realise I’ve slipped a few times. I’m sorry – I’ll try harder,” he said finally, and Harry was struck by the tone of his apology. It wasn’t like the apologies he’d made at the start: grudging in tone and enforced by the collar. Nor was it like the apologies Draco had made: servile and full of fear. Nor, even, was it the same as the apologies he’d made recently: racked with guilt and with the hint of self-loathing. No, this time, it was calm. Settled. An acknowledgement that he’d made an error and that he would try to do better next time. Was this the difference that Harry’s accepting his submission had made? Or was this as a result of him having been faced with the choice of whether to go free or stay a slave, and having made his decision? Or was it something else?

And he was right – he _was_ already Harry’s slave, regardless of what terms they used, and trying to pretend it was any different seemed somewhat…hypocritical. And perhaps it even cast doubt upon the whole of the exercise. But no, he wouldn’t fall back into doubts again – Tom had made his decision; Harry had made his too. Looking forwards, not backwards was what they needed to do now. And so Harry decided to stay with the setting he’d established at the beginning – for all that legally they were still master and slave, in this discussion, both of them had equal rights to contribute, and to work out something that would be equally satisfying to their needs. Tom calling him ‘Harry’ was a way for both of them to get into the right headspace. In the end, what he said was an acknowledgement of that.

“Please do – in this discussion, I need to know that you are not just saying things because you think I’ll want them, but because _you_ want them too. Calling me ‘Harry’ symbolises that in this discussion, we are equal participants.” Tom nodded in acknowledgement.

“I understand,” he replied. At his words and tone, Harry felt _himself_ settle into his skin, and felt for the first time that maybe they could do this. It would be hard, he had no doubt, and there was a long road ahead of them. But it would be worth it. “So, to the nitty-gritty: the daily acts of service for you to perform. I will tell you what I would like first, and then I’d like you to give your thoughts on it. OK?” He asked and Tom smiled at him, that small expression that was more in the corners of his lips and his eyes than anywhere else. It made Harry feel warm inside, and he smiled back.

“I appreciate you cooking for me and keeping the house clean,” he started. “I don’t anticipate my life getting any less busy anytime soon, unless they kick me out of the Auror programme, so not having to worry about household things is definitely something I want. Are you OK with that for the long term?” Tom shrugged.

“With magic, it’s not like it takes a huge portion of the day. And I like cooking for you, regardless. Would you like me to expand my duties in the house? So far, you’ve been doing your own laundry. Would you like me to pick that up?” he asked. It was a good point. But Harry had a question.

“I thought you hated cleaning. Why offer to do _more_ of it?” he asked curiously. Tom shrugged again.

“It’s similar to what I was saying yesterday about being willing to strip naked in public, had you asked it of me. It’s not a task I _want_ to do, in and of itself, but in doing so, I know I’m pleasing you, so there is satisfaction in that. Of course, when it’s something that I _like_ doing as well, that’s even better.” He hesitated before continuing. “Although…I have to say that when I’m doing something I don’t like, and so the whole reason for doing it is to please you…there is an extra satisfaction in that.” Harry didn’t understand it, but he accepted it.

“OK, fine. So yes, please take over all household chores. I’m giving you permission to go into my room, as long as you don’t disrupt anything important. If you’re not sure about something, wait and ask me when I get back.” He paused for a moment to see if Tom had anything more to say, but the red-eyed man just made a ‘continue’ gesture with a slight lift of one eyebrow. So Harry continued. “However, apart from that, I want you to continue learning. If you want to earn a Masters, then I’d like to encourage you to do that. Like I said, your keen mind and extensive knowledge is something I really respect in you, and I’d hate for that to be lost for any reason.”

“Is there anything you’d like me to research in particular, Harry?” Tom asked. Harry considered the question.

“Healing,” he said thoughtfully. “It would be helpful if we don’t have to go to St Mungo’s for everything, and Merlin, I know I’m not going to have the time to do research. Also, any spells or information you think might be useful to teach me either for my Auror work, or in general.” He grimaced slightly, faintest hints of regret going through him. “My life so far has been pretty…focused. It would be good to develop other aspects of myself too.” Looking back, he met Tom’s red gaze, which was almost too understanding for his comfort. But then, who would understand him better than someone who had been so focused on power and immortality he’d, well, he’d done what Tom had done?

“As you wish,” Tom replied, making a couple of notes on the piece of parchment in front of him.

“Apart from that…” Harry trailed off. This was the problem he’d hit earlier. “I’m a fairly simple man, I think. I don’t have elaborate needs for you to fulfil. I’m happy if the house is clean, my food is tasty and on the table when I get home and-” he cut himself off before the last thought escaped.

“And?” asked Tom, his gaze narrowing. Harry took in a deep breath to give himself courage to say it. It wasn’t like Tom hadn’t offered, after all. Several times. So ignoring the blush that rose in his cheeks, Harry met Tom’s stare levelly and forced his voice to be firm.

“And you’re in bed next to me at night, available whenever I want you.” He saw the pupils in Tom’s eyes widen, and his mouth drop open slightly. A moment later, his pink tongue swiped out to wet his lips and Harry could barely stop himself from leaning forward to capturing them. He savoured the thought, though, and didn’t act on it – for this, he wanted to wait until the right moment. “Like that idea?” he murmured. “The idea of me enjoying your body before going to sleep, and then in the middle of the night, when I wake up horny, just turning you over and _sliding_ straight in…” He watched Tom’s reactions like a hawk and was satisfied by the obvious signs of desire – cheeks dusted with red, pupils dilated, slight shifting movements revealing suddenly tight pants…. Oh yes. Tom _definitely_ liked that idea. “Apart from that,” Harry continued, suddenly resuming speaking with a normal tone rather than the husky murmur he’d been using to put images into Tom’s head, “do you have any ideas?”

“What?” Tom asked almost blearily, before his brain clearly kicked back into gear and his gaze sharpened. Clearing his throat, he looked down at the piece of parchment in front of him, the pink that had been dusting his cheeks turning into a full-on blush. “Oh, uh…” he cleared his throat and Harry smiled internally at the way he’d been able to disrupt Tom’s usually keen thought processes. “Is there a way you’d like me to behave?” Tom asked finally.

“What do you mean?” questioned Harry.

“The books we’ve read…some of them talked about routines, rituals, certain actions that are expected by the Master and performed by the slave as a matter of course. Things like greeting you in a certain way, or performing a certain task at the same time every day.” Harry thought about it. He hadn’t considered this area in great depth, but he had read the same books and knew what Tom was talking about, now he had explained. What did he want? Because in the end, it came down to that.

“As I said, I think I am a simple man,” he said slowly. “I don’t need complex rituals, but…” Breathing in and out slowly, he organised his words in his mind before starting to speak. “I like it when you greet me when either of us enters the room. It doesn’t have to be kneeling – and as we’ve already established, if you’re busy doing something, I’d prefer you _not_ to put yourself at risk – but dipping your head, saying ‘master’… I like that.” Tom nodded in understanding.

“Would you like me to keep my attention on you until you give me leave to concentrate elsewhere?” he asked. Harry considered it.

“As long as that isn’t going to lead to any problems, yes,” he decided after a moment. “Obviously, if you’re cooking or making a potion, for example, I would rather you keep your attention on the task, only acknowledging me if it’s safe to do so. But if you enter the sitting-room, say, and I’m already in there, yes, I’d like you to acknowledge me by coming to kneel – or bowing your head, if it’s just to let me know dinner’s ready – and wait for me to give you a sign to continue your intentions.”

“Kneel at your feet or at the door?” Tom clarified.

“I always want you close,” Harry responded, not needing to think much about it. Tom nodded, a pleased light in his red gaze as his eyes rose to meet Harry’s an instant later. “On that subject…I know the library is useful for your research, but I like having you nearby in the evenings. It doesn’t have to be kneeling at my feet, but I enjoy being able to look at you, to run my hands through your hair, to feel your weight against my leg. Where possible, I would prefer you choose an activity you can do in the sitting-room during the evening, saving other activities for when I’m not around. We can get a bookcase for storing your books in there, if you want, but I’d like you there on weekday evenings at least.”

“As you wish,” Tom responded without hesitation. Harry nodded, satisfaction sitting like a warm meal in his belly.

“Apart from that… I don’t need to pick your clothes out every day, although I might ask you to wear something particular on a special occasion. Actually… I _would_ appreciate your advice on what _I_ should wear, when I have something important to do. I know you have a keen sense of fashion – seeing you pick out and then wear that robe for the Ministry ball was enough evidence of that, even without knowing it from seeing memories of you in younger years.”

“Would you like me to pick your clothes out, then?” Tom offered. “Not just for special occasions, but on a daily basis according to what you have planned?” Harry considered the idea and liked it more and more as he reflected on it.

“Yes,” he decided finally. “When I’m not wearing a uniform, that is. And it’s things like that which I would appreciate – little touches to make my life, or our lives, easier. I want you to use your brain and your observation skills to do something before I’d even thought it should be done. To do your best to pre-empt my desires and my requests.”

“I will do my best,” Tom promised. Harry smiled at him.

“That’s all I ask. Remember, I’m not looking for perfection; I just want you to _try_. To want to please me and to act in reflection of that is all I ask.” Tom nodded slowly in acknowledgement. “But Tom,” Harry continued, his smile dropping off his face and a serious mien taking its place, “remember this: I don’t want to be an abuser, taking more from you than you are willing to give. I know, shifting our relationship like this is a risk – it could go horribly wrong, as much as it could go wonderfully right. But if we’re not honest with each other, if we don’t keep communicating what works and what doesn’t, it _will_ go wrong. If you find one day that you don’t want to do this any longer, not like this, _tell me_. We’ll find a way to work it out. But we can only do that if we _talk_. OK?” he asked, feeling suddenly desperate. Tom looked at him for a long moment before slowly dipping his head in agreement.

“Agreed,” he replied sincerely. Harry nodded in reply, and they both stared at each other for a few moments, each feeling the weight of the situation.

“Now,” Harry said, breaking the companionable silence. “Let’s look at the last thing on my list: rules… and punishment. The first rule I want to put in place, and this is by far the most important one,” he said, staring Tom in the eyes to emphasis his seriousness, “is that of honesty. And it applies to both of us. If I’m not happy with something you’ve done or are doing, I’ll tell you. If you’re not happy with something I’m doing, I want you to tell me. Whatever it is, unlike you, I’m not a mind reader, so please, _talk_ to me.” Tom looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded, avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“I’ll try,” he said, and Harry was sure that he was internally criticising himself from the slightly upset expression on his face.

“Start here,” he told Tom. “What are you thinking? What’s the problem?” Tom met his gaze reluctantly, and then sighed.

“I’m not good at being honest,” he admitted finally. “To myself. To you…. I want to try, but I fear that when it comes to the point of having the choice of whether to speak up or keep silent…I’ll fail.” Harry gave him a half-smile.

“But what did you just do?” he asked rhetorically. “You chose to be honest. You chose to tell me what was bothering you. It’s just practice, that’s all,” he said reassuringly. Tom shrugged with one shoulder, turning his head to one side and then back to centre.

“Because you prompted me,” he objected. Harry shrugged with both shoulders.

“Why’s that a problem? If you need me to prompt you at first, I have no problem with that. Come to me and ask me to order you to be honest, to tell me what you think – like we did when Draco first arrived and you were worried about being replaced. I’m always happy to help you follow the rules I set. Alright?” Tom hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “OK, good. Now, the second rule, I still want you to obey me when I give an order, but that doesn’t mean you can’t ask questions, or you can’t object if you feel like it will compromise your safety in some way – linking to the first rule, if there’s ever anything you think I don’t know that you feel might change my order, I want you to be honest about it. Do you see what I mean?”

“I think so,” Tom replied thoughtfully. “For example, if my knee was injured during the day for some reason, and you asked me to kneel for a period of time, you’d want to know about my injury.”

“In concept, yes,” Harry agreed, “but in reality, if you’re injured _at all_ , I want to know about it so we can deal with it. Even if you were injured but healed yourself with a potion or spell, I’d want to know what happened. Alright, third rule. I want you to remember at all times that you represent me in the eyes of people around. I know,” he pre-empted, holding up a hand to stop Tom from speaking, “you already know this, but I feel it needs to be said. In the house, that means being polite to anyone I have over. That said, although this shouldn’t happen – again, at least – but if anyone makes you feel uncomfortable, or tries to hurt you in some way, excuse yourself politely and find me. I’m not intending on inviting over anyone who’s likely to do that, but…it might happen.”

“What if someone comes around while you’re not here? I couldn’t come to find you then,” Tom raised, fairly reasonably. Harry thought about it.

“That’s a good point,” he admitted. “I mean, at present, no one has access to the house who is likely to be a problem, but…if, for whatever reason, I’m once more hospitalised, the Ministry wouldn’t be able to _force_ you out of the wards…but I suppose they could send someone to stay with you here who caused problems even without control of the collar…” Thinking of solutions, he grinned as he hit on the ideal one. “Tell you what: I’ll give you secondary power over the wards – if someone was sent to live with you here who was causing you problems, you’d be able to reject them and close the wards against them. Sound good?” he asked. Tom looked at him, his eyes slightly wide.

“You’d trust me with your wards?” he asked, sounding baffled. Harry shrugged.

“I’m trusting you with a lot more than secondary power over the wards of my house,” he said ironically, knowing it was true – he was trusting Tom with his principles; he was trusting that Tom was being honest in his desires and his submission; he was trusting that Tom, in wanting this, meant that he wasn’t becoming a monster. In comparison to all of that, power over the wards that Harry would be able to override was nothing.

“Then I would be grateful to have it,” Tom replied. Getting up, Harry moved around the corner of the table so he could stand just in front of Tom. Unable to prevent himself from combing his hands a couple of times through Tom’s silky hair – the man half-closing his eyes in pleasure at the touch – he summoned the wards. The feeling of static once more filling the air, Harry saw the walls starting to gleam gold with magic, indicating that they were ‘listening’. Focusing on his desire for Tom to have control over them secondary only to his own, he touched one finger to Tom’s forehead. When the man winced and closed his eyes briefly, Harry knew it had worked.

“How did you do that, master?” Tom asked when the magic had clearly settled inside him enough for him to be able to concentrate. Harry frowned at him, returning to his place.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s not the normal way of transferring wards,” he informed Harry. Harry just felt baffled.

“Isn’t it?” Tom raised an eyebrow.

“No…the _normal_ way is with a small ritual, and something like the wards of a hereditary house would require some blood – one of the only pieces of blood magic which are not banned. What you did was more akin to wandless magic control than anything else.”

“Oh,” Harry replied eloquently.

“Where did you learn to do that?” the red-eyed man asked with interest. Harry shrugged.

“It was just something we started doing in the tent. When one of us started feeling a bit weak from holding the wards, we shifted them to someone else.” Tom’s gaze was piercing.

“They must have been powerful wards, or were not well-done if they had that much power drain to them.” Harry shrugged again.

“I think Hermione said it was a combination of them being strong enough to block almost all types of tracking and scrying magic, not being rooted in runes because those took too long every day, and then the fact that we were rarely that far from magical exhaustion.” Tom stared at him for a moment longer and then shook his head.

“You had a bit of a time of it, didn’t you?” he murmured with guilt in his voice.

“It wasn’t the best period of our lives, no,” Harry agreed grimly. “But it’s over now,” he tried to reassure Tom. Seeing the twist to his mouth, he felt he wasn’t particularly successful. Battling conflicting desires to say that it was OK, when it wasn’t, and to say that Tom was at least undergoing punishment for it, which he didn’t think would be helpful to the situation at hand, he instead continued the conversation. “Alright, that sorts out the house. Now, publicly. I know that you don’t like having your behaviour being dictated to by an arbitrary code of conduct, so what I’m going to say is that, again, your behaviour reflects on me.

“Since your collar doesn’t react to anyone apart from me, there is almost no danger that the Ministry will try to get control over you, unless either I am out of the picture, or you commit a crime that they cannot ignore. As for them trying to punish you, I can’t see any situation where I will allow that to happen, as long as I am in a position where I can prevent it. However, as you well know, disruption in the public eye can lead to wide-ranging effects.” Tom avoided Harry’s gaze, no doubt thinking, as he was, about the numerous effects of him losing control of his temper with that former supporter of his. Unintentional, but indisputably linked nonetheless.

“So, to avoid that, I’m going to put some trust in you, in light of what happened in our shared dream,” Harry told Tom seriously, willing him to meet his eyes again. When he did, Harry smiled at him and then continued. “If Lady Magic is to be trusted, and I don’t see why not, I now have the ability to remove all restrictions on you, when it comes to your use of magic, and your ability to go in and out of wards. I choose to do so.” Tom gaped at him for a moment.

“Mas-Harry, you mean…?” he trailed off. Harry nodded.

“Assuming it works, you should be able to use any type of magic in any situation, and you should be able to enter and leave wards at will. Shall we check that now?” he asked, slightly eager to know whether it had worked or not. Tom frowned at him

“How do you propose to try that out? I’d rather not try to cast any Killing Curses at you,” he remarked with a wry note in his voice. Harry grimaced.

“No,” he agreed. “That doesn’t seem like the most sensible of options.” He thought about it, but then Tom offered a suggestion.

“Why don’t we test if I can leave the wards without your presence? If one has become possible, it seems likely that both will have,” he said logically. Harry nodded.

“That’s true. Alright, why don’t you try to leave the wards and then come back,” he offered and Tom nodded in assent, standing up from his chair and disappearing out of the room swiftly.

XXX

Opening the door, Tom hesitated before stepping outside. This was it – proof that he could either live an almost normal life, within his slavery, or that he couldn’t. He found himself desiring his theory to be proven true with a desperation that almost surprised him. And it wasn’t because he wanted to hurt people anymore…it was just that the vision Harry had painted of them being partners, equals in life, for all that they had the imbalance of power in their relationship, of them defending each other…it had attracted Tom with a siren call….

He’d never had a partner. He’d never had someone he could trust with his back. He’d never had someone who he could trust to rather be his shield than the knife that buried itself in it. Maybe he could have, if he’d chosen a different route at school. But he hadn’t, and he couldn’t change what had happened, even though he wanted to. So this…the idea that Harry would trust him to be there for him, to be his support, his shield… It was more than Tom had any right to expect. But he couldn’t fulfil that role properly if he was still bound by the unchangeable tenets of slavery – the inability to cast magic that might irrevocably harm a sentient being; the inability to move out of a set of wards without physical touch with his master, even with his master’s order.

The rest of that discussion had simply proven the trust Tom had in his master. He’d had a moment of doubt when he’d woken up, when he’d registered that he’d had the option to be free and had turned it away. He’d had a moment where he feared that perhaps his trust was misplaced, a natural anxiety, he thought, at the knowledge that once again, he had no exit from this, and this time by his choice. But no – now he felt none of that.

Although he hadn’t been convinced at first of the need for them to pretend not to be master and slave when, in reality, that was exactly what they were, he understood why Harry had wanted to do it like that. And honestly, Tom appreciated that he had tried. And that he had actually taken Tom’s ideas on board. Actually, the fact that he had seemed to accept Tom’s submission at all was a miracle in itself, a gift horse Tom was _definitely_ not looking in the mouth. 

What Harry wanted on a daily basis was not all that different from what they had at present, though Tom appreciated both the addition of certain duties and the fact that it sounded like Harry was going to…to engage in sexual relations with him. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. On one hand, the thought of actually having…having sex with Harry was heady, especially after the images he’d given Tom in recent times. On the other…Tom would probably be on the bottom. The one being penetrated. Fucked. And he didn’t know what to feel about that. It wasn’t unexpected, given that he was the slave and Harry was the master, but it had never happened before to Tom. He’d never allowed any of his partner to penetrate him, had never wanted to be that vulnerable. So, without knowing whether or not he’d enjoy it, he felt a bit of trepidation at the prospect, along with the excitement and anticipation. Still, he consoled himself, Harry had been considerate and had emphasised his consent all the way along – if he hated it, surely he wouldn’t force it?

Mustering his courage, knowing that Harry was waiting inside for him to report back with the results of this little experiment, he stepped onto the doorstep. Another step, made very tentatively, half-expecting to feel pain shoot through him, his body moved past where the wards generally were. Feeling nothing, he opened his eyes, which he had closed at some point, and felt a sense of elation. Taking another pace, in case the wards were further out than he’d thought, he then took another, and another. When he reached the other side of the street, he stopped and grinned. That test was a success!

Deciding to do a bit of unsanctioned testing of something else, he walked back to the house so he was back within the wards, and out of sight from the road, he looked around for a test subject. Seeing a man walking slowly down the street, he took his wand out.

“ _Imperius_ ,” he muttered, and the blue spell came out of his wand and shot the man. Mentally commanding the muggle to come to him, he waited until his vict-test subject was in front of him, his eyes blank, to give the next command. Willing the muggle to kill himself using the spiky fence, he braced for the feeling of pain to go through him and break his hold on the spell. When it didn’t happen, he realised he’d have to actually _stop_ the muggle before he really _did_ kill himself. Doing so with the point of the railing a hair away from the man’s throat, he quickly obliviated him and sent him on his way none the wiser – he suspected that Harry would have real problems with him actually killing a muggle to test his theory, and he had no desire to be punished – again.

Still, the fact that he _hadn’t_ been punished seemed to indicate that his magic was free and unrestricted once more. Feeling a renewed sense of elation run through him, he couldn’t prevent the slight bounce in his step from showing. Harry raised his eyebrows at him when he entered.

“I take it the test was a success?” he asked, though his tone seemed to indicated that it wasn’t much of a question.

“I was able to walk across the street without a problem,” Tom replied, satisfaction filling his voice.

“Excellent,” Harry said happily. Tom’s smile slipped slightly as he said the next bit.

“I did test something else, master,” he started and Harry’s brows drew together and his eyes narrowed as he saw the automatic change in Tom’s body language.

“And what was that?” he asked, slightly warily.

“You know that heretofore my magic has been constrained to non-lethal actions against sentient beings? And that any actions which have a clear degree of lethality about them have automatically attracted severe pain, enough to prevent me from continuing with them?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, even warier by this point, clearly wondering what he had done.

“I was able to put a muggle under the Imperius and command him to commit suicide. I didn’t allow him to,” Tom hastily added, seeing the worry in his master’s eyes, “but the fact that I could actually command him to do so without losing control of the spell proves that my restrictions have indeed been lifted.” Harry stared at him for a long moment before he breathed in and out deeply and a despairing smile crossed his face.

“Only you, Tom,” he said, shaking his head. “Only you.” Tom wasn’t sure if he should feel offended or not at the fondly hopeless tone in his voice. “Am I correct in imagining that the person is both uninjured and unaware of what happened?” he checked.

“Of course, master,” Tom replied, and this time he did feel slightly affronted. Did his master think him so careless as to leave a muggle wandering around London with the knowledge of his spell? Then again, he supposed his actions as Voldemort _had_ actually exposed the Wizarding world to the risk of being discovered, so maybe it wasn’t as insulting a question as he had at first thought. “I obliviated him,” he clarified and Harry sighed in relief.

“OK, well, since no one was actually _hurt_ , I suppose I can’t actually be annoyed for being, well, _you_. Especially since you obviously took pains to ensure that no one was injured in deference to my wishes. But next time, before you start casting spells on someone like that, please check with me. _Especially_ if they are illegal spells which carry a life sentence in Azkaban for their usage.”

“Not on a muggle,” Tom felt obliged to point out.

“You’re behind on your facts,” Harry rebutted. “As of November last year, use of the Unforgiveables on _any_ human carries an equal sentence. I know Hermione is working to get that extended to all sentient _beings_ , but that’s still a work in progress.” Then, clearly realising he’d got off-topic, he waved impatiently at the air. “That actually takes us back to the third rule – since I don’t plan to let the Ministry take their pound of flesh for any misbehaviours of yours, that means that _I_ will be charged with any of your criminal actions. I’ve given you access to your magic in the trust that you don’t actually want me to be sentenced to Azkaban for who knows how long, so please, make sure any action you take are not against the law.”

Thinking of Harry being sentenced to the Wizarding prison for something _he’d_ done made Tom feel nauseous, and he immediately resolved that Harry wouldn’t suffer for any of his actions. He’d try not to break the law, but if he found himself in a situation where he had to, he’d make sure that no one ever discovered it. Except his master, of course – he would tell his master and accept any punishment due to him for his actions.

“I will make sure you are never charged with a crime, master,” he said simply. Harry eyed him with some amusement and a small bit of apprehension.

“I should feel reassured, but somehow I can’t help thinking that I’m going to have a headache at some point in the future from all of this,” he remarked. Since Tom couldn’t argue with the prediction, he stayed silent. “Anyway,” Harry continued, “Public behaviour. I want you to do your best to avoid or defuse situations which you think might cause problems for our public image. Remember, you can always come to me if you are worried that trying to deal with the problem on your own is likely to cause a problem, with the way you’re expected to behave when out in public. If, for whatever reason, you’re on your own, just try to deal with the situation as well as possible and then tell me _immediately_ about what happened so I can do damage control if necessary. OK?”

If Tom was honest, he didn’t really need it all spelled out like that – there had been enough incidents over the past few months for him to know what to do about them. That said, he appreciated his master making it perfectly clear what he expected from his slave. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a problem that he couldn’t deal with on his own, but he _was_ aware that, despite his now unlimited use of magic, the expectations of his behaviour in the Wizarding world _were_ sufficiently limiting as to rob him of most of his coping strategies, so he appreciated his master’s emphasis that he should go to him. His old self would have hated the idea of _running to someone for protection_ , but Harry had proved himself strong enough and wise enough to offer that. And besides, his pride had taken a real battering and was no longer the big obstacle it would have been in the past.

“I understand,” he replied firmly. Harry looked at him consideringly for a moment, and then nodded.

“Good. Just always remember that _you_ are more important than me looking good – if you think you’re at risk of being injured or killed, I want you to use any means you must to get out of the situation. There’s a lot I can get away with if I deal with it correctly, but I can’t do anything with an irreparable injury or _death_ ,” he emphasised, looking at Tom with a hard stare. He then paused for a few moments in thought before continuing. “Honestly, those are the only things I came up with – the rest I figure either fall under one of those or can be dealt with at another time. Do you have anything you want to add?” Tom thought about it carefully. Rules hadn’t exactly been something he’d considered during that day – he’d felt that was more Harry’s area than his. Three rules: be honest and ask Harry to order him if he was struggling to do it; obey Harry’s orders; act in a way that kept his master’s reputation at the forefront, as long as it didn’t lead to permanent harm to himself. They were reasonable. He said as much to his master.

“I can’t think of anything else,” he added afterwards, thoughtfully. Harry nodded slowly.

“Alright. Well, if something comes up later, we’ll deal with it then. Now, last thing. How do you feel about the automatic punishment and reward of the collar?” he asked. Once again, it was something Tom hadn’t thought about. He’d got used to it, really, in as much as it was possible to get used to it. He still didn’t like the pleasure aspect, though he disliked it less than when it had started. In fact, sometimes he wasn’t sure whether the pleasure running through him was something from the collar, or just his natural reaction to knowing he’d pleased his master. As for the punishment, he didn’t tend to test his master’s rules very often, so he didn’t usually run afoul of the collar. Of course, recent times had proved the exception to that – his encounter with that wizard in the alleyway, for example. But that wouldn’t be a problem again: Master had seen to that. In the end, he just shrugged.

“As you wish, Harry. It’s your choice.” Harry looked at him steadily and Tom wondered whether he was glad of Tom’s answer, or annoyed with it – his expression, for once, gave nothing away.

“Alright,” Harry accepted neutrally. “Then my decision is this. I don’t want the collar rewarding you automatically – I would rather give you any rewards. Equally with punishment, I only want the collar to give you a brief shock as a reminder if you are about to break one of the rules, espeicially if you are not honest when you speak with me. If you do something you know I would not approve of, I want you to come and tell me about it, as you have been doing recently. Equally, if you do something you think would make me _pleased_ with you, I want you to tell me about it. If I’m going to be your master in truth, then I can’t rely on the collar to do all the work for me,” he said, at the end his tone becoming very frank. “Is that something you think you can manage?” he asked, his gaze intense. Giving the question the consideration it deserved, Tom bowed his head a moment in thought.

Telling his master about his good and bad deeds? Could he do it? Strangely enough, he thought that it would be easier to tell his master about the things he felt _guilty_ about: the things he felt he should be punished for, especially if the collar wasn’t going to punish him anymore. Telling Harry about the things he had achieved? That he’d done well? That would be more difficult. But the idea of his master taking more of an interest in his actions…it felt good. Slightly frightening at the same time, but good. Imagining his master praising him for something he’d done well sent a curl of warmth into his belly, even as the thought of having to report wrong-doing made him slightly nervous.

“I’ll try,” he said finally, his sincere desire to do so filling his voice.

“That’s all I ask,” Harry replied quietly. “But remember this, Tom. While we are master and slave legally, the type of slavery I’m trying to put in place in our private home is the kind that only works if we both _want_ it to work. To repeat my words earlier, if at any time it becomes something you _don’t_ want, come and talk to me about it, OK? We’re in this for the long term – we need to act like it,” he said so earnestly it almost made Tom’s heart hurt. That Harry wanted this to work as much as Tom did was undeniable, and the lengths to which he’d gone to find a way for both of them…it made Tom proud to belong to him. He knew he’d kill, he’d hurt, he’d bleed, he’d scheme to make sure that what he and Harry were building would be kept safe. But no scheming should be kept from his master, he reminded himself, no matter whether he thought Harry would disapprove or disagree. He’d chosen to give Harry the decisions, so he needed to act according to his choice. Thinking about that though…

“Master?” he asked, and then quickly corrected himself. “Sorry, Harry?” Harry smiled at him, though there was a slightly self-depreciating edge to it.

“It’s alright, Tom. You can call me ‘master’ again now. I think we’ve got past the point of trying to put our roles aside, to be honest. Although remember that you are at liberty to call me by my name, when we’re in an appropriate venue – the way you say ‘Harry’ tends to sound like ‘master’, anyway.” Tom had to admit that he had a point – he’d come to that realisation weeks ago with Richards, after all.

“I was thinking…I…I have a tendency to manipulate,” he started. Harry gave him a slightly sardonic smile.

“I’d noticed,” he said wryly. Tom couldn’t help smirking a little because, well, _yes_.

“Could you…could you order me to not do it, or something similar?” he asked, forcing himself through the slight embarrassment and the old feelings of disliking showing vulnerability: this was important. “I know we discussed it before, but then we went to the munch and you never actually ordered me. Besides, things have changed. But now…?” The smile Harry graced him with now was a lot warmer than the previous, and it sent a shiver of pleasure through Tom that he now knew was nothing to do with the collar.

“Well done for being honest about your needs,” he praised Tom, causing more of that delicious feeling of having pleased his master to go through Tom. “And you’re right – I did plan to order you, but as you said, things got a bit busy…. Tom, if you feel any desire to manipulate me, or if you ever conceive of an idea of how to manipulate me into doing what you want me to do, I want you to come and tell me straight away. If I’m not home, I want you to write it down on a piece of parchment and place it on my desk. If we’re out in public, I want you to, at an appropriate time, tell me that you have something important to say and I will try to give you the opportunity to tell me, or ask you when we’re back home. It should go without saying, but I expect you to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing _but_ the truth. Clear?” he asked firmly.

“Crystal clear, master,” Tom replied, a part of him that had been clenched tightly in nervousness, finally relaxing. Because he knew himself, he knew that it was natural for him to manipulate and scheme to get what he wanted – it had been something he’d done for such a long time that he didn’t think he would ever be able to change that part of his character. And honestly, it wasn’t something he hated about himself – he knew that it had helped him a lot in the past, and that he would be able to use it to help his master in his goals. The idea, though, that his tendency to do so might cause problems in his relationship with Harry, though… No. And with this order, so explicitly and clearly given, if he tried to do it, he would be reminded by the collar that he was breaking his master’s second rule, if not also his first one, and he would tell his master about it. Harry would be able to deal with it; with him. He trusted that Harry would do what was right. “Thank you,” he said gratefully.

“No problem,” Harry replied softly. “It’s my responsibility and my pleasure, as your master, to help you. Is there anything else you’d like to add before we end this?” Tom didn’t have to think about it for long before shaking his head.

“Only that it is my desire and pleasure to serve you as your slave, master,” he said honestly. Harry’s mouth ticked up on one side in a half-smile.

“Then come here and kneel before me, my Tom,” he ordered with a note of pleasure in his voice that Tom delighted to hear. Slipping out of his chair, he immediately obeyed, sliding to his knees in front of Harry bowing his head in submission to the man who had finally taken the full mantle of power and responsibility that Tom had been trying to give him for the past few weeks.

“Master,” he said, trying to pack into that one word all the joy, relief, and satisfaction that were rolling through him. A hand started carding through his hair and he leaned into it, his eyes half closing in pleasure at the touch. Harry pulled his head so it was leaning against his master’s knee, and there they stayed for a few minutes. Until Harry’s stomach suddenly gurgled in hunger, that was. Loudly.

Tom lifted his head and met Harry’s gaze. Then they both burst out laughing.

“I think my stomach is being pretty clear about what it wants,” Harry told Tom ruefully after they had calmed down. Casting _tempus_ they both felt surprise at the time – it was long past the time they normally had dinner; no wonder that Harry’s stomach was grumbling about the wait.

“I guess I’d better serve your stomach and you with some dinner,” Tom said playfully. Harry smirked at him.

“Definitely,” he agreed with fervour, “unless you want me to give serious thought to eating _you_.” Then, as the double meaning to that registered with both of them, Tom saw Harry’s eyes darken, and a slightly predatory look come into them, even as he felt a rush of desire go through his own body. “I bet you’d be a tasty morsel,” Harry murmured huskily, the tone of his voice doing _nothing_ to help Tom control his reactions.

“Master,” Tom said, almost breathlessly, not sure where he was going with it, but feeling he should say _something_. Swallowing, he tried to order his thoughts, having to take more than a few moments to redirect his blood flow to somewhere it would be more useful. “Master, may I go and prepare dinner?” he managed, in the end. Harry looked at him for a few more moments, and Tom waited patiently for his permission to move.

“I’ll just have a taste, first,” Harry decided. Before Tom could register what he meant by ‘a taste’, Harry’s hand in his hair had woven with the base of his locks and was pulling him up so he had to kneel upright so as to avoid his hair being pulled too tightly. At the higher level, he was able to realise what his master intended when Harry swooped in to capture his lips in a scorching hot kiss.

Tom moaned almost helplessly at the press of his master’s lips, and Harry’s tongue took advantage of his lips parting to slip inside his mouth and flick at his own tongue. His master’s lips and teeth nibbled at Tom’s upper lip in between devastating intrusions of his tongue. And then, just as Tom felt like he might spontaneously combust from arousal, Harry pulled away, only the hand still in Tom’s hair stopping him from losing his balance. Nonetheless, he swayed a bit, feeling dizzy – perhaps from the lack of air, perhaps just from the overwhelming situation after that whole, _long_ conversation they’d had.

Harry looked very satisfied, Tom noted, licking his lips in pleasure. In fact, he looked rather like the cat who’d got the cream. And the bird. Something inside Tom said that maybe he should be annoyed at his master for still looking so composed when Tom himself felt like a trembling wreck, probably with ruffled hair and a kiss-swollen lip. But the majority of him was just glowing that Harry had _finally_ taken what they both wanted. It gave Tom hope that maybe he would go further next time…

“Alright, you can go and make dinner,” Harry permitted, jogging Tom from the very, _very_ nice daydream his thoughts had started to lead him into. He blinked almost owlishly at his master for a moment as he tried to remind himself of what he was supposed to be. Oh. Dinner. Yes. Harry smirked, as if he knew the effect his words and actions had had on his slave, and they pleased him – which was probably exactly the case – and then waved mockingly at him. Glaring half-heartedly, Tom pushed himself to his feet and sauntered off to the fridge to get out the ingredients for his planned supper dish.

Feeling slightly devilish, he made sure to allow his hips to sway slightly from side to side – not too obviously put on, but enough to be attractive, he hoped – and then made sure that he bent over multiple times to take things out of the fridge and cupboards, instead of using magic to summon them out instead. Darting a glance back at Harry when it seemed reasonable to do so, he was satisfied to see the naked desire on Harry’s face, the hooded look to his eyes, and the indolent pose that reminded Tom of nothing so much as a predator waiting to _pounce_. Biting his lip, he turned back to his task, hyper-aware of Harry’s eyes on his back.

XXX

“Here’s your copy,” Harry said, a note of satisfaction in his voice, brandishing the scroll of parchment he’d been writing on like a sword. Tom looked up from his own task, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he took it.

“I’m almost finished my task, master,” he said, putting the scroll to one side – since he had the longer document to write, it wasn’t surprising it was taking him more time. A few minutes later, he finished the final stroke of ink and cast a quick charm to dry it so it wouldn’t smudge. Then he handed it to his master who gave him a strange look.

“Don’t you want a copy?” he asked, puzzled.

“Of course,” Tom responded immediately. Harry’s brow creased into a frown.

“Then why…?” he trailed off. It was clear what he meant, though. Why did he want Harry to do the copying spell when he was more than capable of doing it himself? Tom just shrugged.

“It feels right, that way,” he said honestly. Harry stared at him for a moment more and then shrugged as Tom had a moment earlier.

“Alright,” he said and muttered the copying spell, not having quite got it down to non-verbal yet. He handed the copy to Tom and kept the original. Tom received it with a small jump in his stomach that could be either apprehension or anticipation; he couldn’t decide which. It was official. He was willingly Harry’s slave. For some reason, it hadn’t felt quite so real, quite so solid until he had the pieces of parchment in his hands.

Unscrolling the one Harry had given him originally, he saw Harry’s scrawl writing out the three principal rules by which they had decided to run their relationship. A bloom of warmth blossomed in his stomach and he felt a tug at the corners of his lips as he saw how Harry had underlined the parts about him using his safe-word if necessary and about coming to him if a situation arose in public which he couldn’t manage because of his status as a slave.

He didn’t need to look at the page he had written with the expectations of his behaviour, but he did all the same, letting himself _feel_ it. It was the strangest sensation – the sensation of being tightly constricted, but more like by a warm, comforting blanket than by cold, uncaring chains. Something inside him felt at peace, settled – his path was clear before him in a way it hadn’t been for months. Perhaps even years – as Voldemort he’d had an idea of what he was fighting towards, but no clear picture of where he wanted to go. Perhaps he hadn’t actually been fighting _towards_ anything, but _away_ from the fear and anger of his childhood. The thought struck an uncomfortable chord within him and Tom pushed it away – this was meant to be a moment of triumph: he’d finally convinced his master to give _them_ a go.

“Are you OK?” asked Harry with a note of concern in his voice. Tom scolded himself – he wasn’t supposed to feed his emotions over to his _master_.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he said, putting on his usual charming smile. To his slight surprise, Harry’s look of concern didn’t lighten – in fact it did the opposite.

“Not being honest at this point isn’t a good sign,” he said pointedly. Tom thought with chagrin that he probably shouldn’t have forgotten that his master was remarkably good at seeing past his mask. He dropped it, grimacing and thinking about how to explain. “Hey,” Harry said in a softer tone, his hand reaching out to stroke the back of the one of Tom’s which was lying on the table between them. “If you don’t want to tell me right now, that’s OK. And if you need me to force it out of you, that’s OK too.” The corner of Tom’s mouth kicked up in an expression which was somewhere between a smile and a smirk. Trust Harry to be able to say something which should have been a threat in a way that made it sound oddly romantic instead. Then, the smile dropping, he sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling with his breath.

“It’s just…” he hesitated for a moment and then found the words. “I wish I’d found this earlier.”

“What?” Harry asked, his tone quiet but encouraging. Tom shrugged.

“You. Me. This feeling.” He waved his free hand impatiently in the air, frustration bubbling up inside him. “I just can’t help thinking how much could have been avoided if I’d discovered how…if I’d discovered this sense of _peace_ before I ruined so much,” he explained, a bitter note in his voice. The thought of the years he’d _wasted_ , the lives he’d taken, _ruined_ …. What he could have been had he not fallen. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to be Harry’s slave…but he could admit to wishing that he was only a slave to _Harry_ – that perhaps they had more of a relationship like those they’d met at the munch, something which was as private as the participants chose to make it.

His slavery…well it was fortunate that he’d grown to like it, to _crave_ it, wasn’t it? And lucky that he had someone like Harry as his master. Because, regardless of his desires, his choices, he would still be a slave for the rest of his life. Or until he was old, if he’d taken up Lady Magic’s offer. But that wasn’t what was making him feel bitter: the reality was that he _did_ like it. The feeling of security invoked by having the rules and behaviours which would govern his life for the next period of time was proof enough of _that_. And he had no regrets in choosing to stay with Harry, because he would have lost _this_ – he knew that like he knew how to cast a _lumos_. No, the feeling of bitterness came from a different place.

If only he’d taken a different path. He could almost see it now, his imagination creating a vivid picture of what he could have been. He’d wanted to aim towards becoming Minister for Magic, and had he continued on the route he’d started before he’d discovered and pursued horcruxes, he knew he would have succeeded. How could he not have? He had been powerful, intelligent, supported by the children of the people who would have been his main obstacles – the rich purebloods. He had had evidence of a prestigious lineage, and he’d already started building contacts through Slughorn’s parties. He would have become Minister.

And then when Harry came along, his own power a match for Tom’s…. Well, there was the possibility that they could have met, could have developed a relationship out of mutual fascination rather than hatred and resentment. Perhaps Tom would have discovered his buried desires to submit, and would have explored that world with Harry in the way it was supposed to happen. They could have had all the good things, and none of the bad.

It was difficult to accept that because of the idiotic choices he had made throughout his younger years, he’d created a blockage in his path that there was no going past. There was no future for him in any sort of public office, no chance of him improving life for those entering the world disadvantaged as he’d once dreamed of, except as a source of support for his master. Even had he chosen the option where he went free, he would have never been able to move past the stigma of being the former Dark Lord Voldemort and then a slave. He was pretty sure that Harry would support him in anything he chose to do – well, anything he would _want_ to choose to do now – but there was no way forwards in any occupation of importance. Not anywhere where the collar around his neck would be a damning indictment, at least.

“You think you wouldn’t have chosen to be Voldemort if you’d discovered your desire to submit earlier?” Harry asked for clarification. “Do you honestly think you would have _chosen_ something like this when you were younger?” he asked, his tone slightly incredulous.

“In a way,” Tom answered. “And no. I don’t think I would have chosen it.” Then he thought for a moment. “Although…with the right person…” He sighed, looking directly at his master and meeting that calm and curious emerald gaze. “There was never anyone I truly respected in my younger years,” he confessed. “There were people I had to at least _pretend_ to respect because they had power over me, over my food, or my education. The problem was, I was too powerful, too intelligent. Few matched me in either department, let alone surpassed me. No one could truly _force_ me to obey, if I chose not to.”

“It’s not like I can do that either,” Harry pointed out. “Not without the collar, at least.” Tom shook his head.

“You might actually surpass me in the power department,” he admitted honestly. “Don’t forget, I’ve had seventy years of magical growth; you’ve had just short of twenty. And yes, the majority of core growth happens in the first seventeen years, but you’ve only passed your first magical maturity, yet your raw power is fairly similar to my own. When you pass your second magical maturity at twenty, and your third at twenty-five, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that your raw power is greater than my own. As for finesse…well, I have the advantage on you in that, but the gap will narrow as time wears on. And don’t degrade your intelligence, master, you may not have the same kind of intelligence that I have, but you have plenty of it.” He cut himself off, fearing that it was developing into a rant. Harry looked at him with an amused look.

“I wasn’t actually fishing for compliments, I promise,” he said dryly. “But I appreciate them all the same. My point really was that without a similar situation of you being forced by a magical collar to obey someone, would anything have been different?” Tom thought about it briefly and then shrugged, the ‘what ifs’ just making him feel more depressed.

“I’d rather not talk about this anymore,” he said quietly, looking away from Harry and hoping he wouldn’t push the subject.

“Alright,” Harry replied easily, relieving him. “I suppose a better question is this: would you like to share my bed tonight?” Tom’s eyes jumped back to his face, his gaze wide and surprised. A sudden burst of nerves and excitement ran through him, banishing the negative feelings that had been there not a moment before.

“Do you mean...?” he started, not sure if he wanted the answer to be yes or no, which was ridiculous – Harry had been the star of the last few fantasies he’d had as he’d masturbated recently, so why would he be suddenly feeling like he didn’t want the real thing to take their place? To his disappointment – or was it relief? – his master shook his head.

“Not in any sexual way,” he clarified. “Not yet. But I certainly sleep better when you’re there, and I suspect the same’s true for you too?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrows, but his tone didn’t really sound like a question. “Seeing as the reasons for why I turned you down before have gone, I’d like to have you there, unless you’re very opposed to it.”

“Of course, master,” Tom responded, eagerness in his voice. The idea of being allowed to be next to his master in that vulnerable state once more…the feel of his master’s body wrapping up his from behind, his arms coming around Tom’s chest to hold him tightly to the broader body behind…. He found himself staring at Harry with unfocused eyes and quickly shook himself out of his fantasies, blinking to focus back on Harry’s face. Harry, who was smirking a little.

“I thought you might like that,” he responded, slight smugness coating each of his words. Tom glared half-heartedly at him, feeling a blush rising to his cheeks. Blessed Merlin, at least Harry decided not to continue his teasing, casting a _tempus_. “Shall we go and relax in the sitting-room for a while? Or at least, _you_ can relax: _I_ need to revise,” he finished glumly. Tom gave him a sympathetic look before agreeing – unfortunately, the first NEWT exam _was_ on Monday and Harry had spent most of the weekend so far on their relationship – which Tom definitely appreciated – so he probably _did_ need to do revision.

He dropped his copies of their agreement off in his room and then returned to join Harry, sitting by his feet and leaning against his legs as usual. When Harry’s hand dropped to stroke absently through his hair, and his warmth started to seep into Tom’s side, he had to admit that this really wasn’t a bad way to live.

XXX

Tom opened the fridge and surveyed the items inside with a critical eye. Hmm. That cream needed to be used up – he’d opened it a few days ago. So did the packet of sausages which he’d bought last time he went to the shops. What to make…what to make. His thought process was cut off by the sound of the front door opening and a cheerful whistle filling the air. A leap in his chest greeted the sound – Harry was home!

Forgetting the food for a moment, he closed the fridge and started towards the door. Before he reached the stairs, though, Harry came into view, clattering down the steps, a big smile on his face. Tom immediately knelt, bowing his head to acknowledge his master’s entrance, but a gesture from Harry and he was quickly scrambling to his feet again. Harry reached up and gently grasped the back of his neck, pulling him down with a force that wasn’t rough, but was firm nonetheless. When his face was at the right height, his master’s lips met his in a kiss that started off chaste, but soon deepened, Harry’s tongue slipping into Tom’s mouth and caressing his slave’s.

At the point that Tom’s head was starting to spin and his knees weaken once more, Harry pulled away, his beaming smile having turned into something that had a hint of a smirk to it as he saw the effect he had had on his slave. Swallowing a couple of times to regain his composure, Tom straightened.

It wasn’t the first time Harry had pushed him off balance with a kiss, or even something a bit more. They hadn’t gone very far; in fact, they hadn’t gone far enough in Tom’s opinion. Harry seemed to gain pleasure from kissing Tom senseless and then watching him struggle to re-orientate himself. As he was doing now. It had happened in bed a few times; in the kitchen; in the sitting room; even in the hallway at one point. After each encounter, he had wanted to go to his room and take a shower, wrapping his hand around his length to stroke in just the way he liked it, moaning as his release painted the walls white, but he hadn’t, and it wasn’t just because he was usually supposed to be doing something directly afterwards. He hadn’t actually taken his own pleasure in hand since committing himself to being Harry’s slave forever. He’d tried after the first time Harry had kissed him to the point of distraction, his cock a red-hot iron rod in his trousers, but it hadn’t felt right. He’d stopped before reaching the point of orgasm, feeling slightly guilty at his actions despite it not being discussed with Harry at all.

So needless to say, after a week of teasing and no relief, he was rather pent up. The hallway incident had been a particularly tempting one. Tom felt himself harden at the memory – Harry had pressed him against the wall, his shorter stature not proving to be any disadvantage at all as his broader body caged Tom’s slimmer but taller one and his hands pinned Tom’s wrists to the wall at his shoulder level. He had then nibbled at Tom’s neck until he was panting before releasing one of Tom’s wrists to reach up and pull his head down to the right level. Then, after proceeding to kiss Tom completely senseless, he had continued along his way to the stairs, leaving his slave panting and wrecked behind him.

That was probably his favourite moment in the past week, but it had some stiff competition. Being pinned against the kitchen counter, Harry pressed against his back and his hands roaming Tom’s chest, rubbing over the fabric until Tom was almost driven mad with desire to have him actually touch his skin, was definitely up there. Of course, at that point, he had just walked away and slid into his chair, looking like a very satisfied cat when Tom had gathered himself enough to turn around and see him.

Another delicious moment had been in bed the previous morning. True to Harry’s promise, he hadn’t introduced anything particularly sexual to the bed which was rapidly becoming _their_ bed, but he hadn’t shied away from touching Tom, unlike before. They had woken several times with Harry’s arms wrapped around Tom or vice versa, and fairly often with one of their morning woods pressed against the other’s hip, leg, or arse. Instead of immediately creating some distance between them, as he had on the other occasions when it had happened, Harry had instead stayed pressed against Tom, sometimes even stroking whatever he could reach of Tom.

That morning, Tom had woken up rather frustrated from being teased every day, and never satisfied. He’d wondered, lying in bed, whether maybe his master was _still_ uncertain about his slave’s willing, _eager_ consent. Fighting Harry’s hold a little, he’d twisted his body around until he was facing his master before proceeding to snog Harry fiercely, rubbing his hard length up against Harry’s equally interested member. A moment later, the wrist of the arm which was uppermost at the time was seized and he was flipped onto his back. Before he’d really processed what had happened, both wrists had been captured and were being held above his head, Harry towering over him, his eyes alight with lust and some sort of fierce light.

 _“Not without my permission,” he growled near Tom’s ear, the vibrations going through him and making him shiver to his core. “Patience, my slave. We’ll go further when_ I _choose to_. _”_

Tom almost shivered at the memory of how weak those words had made him feel, how Harry taking control and _forcing_ him to obey had left him panting and yearning for more. _Actually_ , he thought as arousal pooled once more in his belly, _that’s my favourite_. Harry seemed to know what he was thinking of if the wicked light in his eyes was anything to judge by.

“Thinking of something fun?” he asked mock-innocently as his emerald orbs gleamed and glinted at Tom.

“Wondering when we’re going to…go the whole way, actually,” Tom replied bluntly. Apparently his master hadn’t been expecting that if the momentary widening of his eyes was anything to go by. Then they narrowed again and were back to their previous state.

“All in good time, my Tom,” Harry said mysteriously. “All in good time. Speaking of time, I’m glad you haven’t actually started dinner.”

“Why?” asked Tom, a little suspiciously.

“Because we’re going out!” Harry announced. Tom felt a leap of apprehension in his stomach which must have shown on his face as Harry’s gaze turned reassuring. “In the muggle world,” he added. “So go and get a scarf or something and meet me by the front door.”

“What’s the special occasion?” asked Tom. Harry just gave him a grin which did nothing to ease his nerves and gestured towards the door. Complying with his master’s order, Tom hurried upstairs and got the lighter scarf he’d bought for use during the summer. He dithered for a moment, deciding whether he should get changed, but then decided against it – Master hadn’t told him to do so, and presumably he knew where they were heading.

“So?” Tom asked with a lift of one eyebrow. Harry just grinned at him again and opened the door. Thanks to the changes to his collar, his master no longer needed to be in contact with him for him to be able to leave the wards, but they didn’t go far anyway. Instead, Harry reached out and side-apparated Tom away. A stomach-squeezing journey later, they were standing near a park which, Tom noted with a small bit of horror, was packed with muggles of all ages (or presumably muggles). Lights were flashing and the noise level was high with shouts, cries, screams, laughter….

The sweet smell permeating the air clinched it for Tom – this was a muggle _fair_. It was a bit different from the one Tom remembered seeing as a child, and the memory made him scowl – he’d wanted to go along with several other orphans, but because he’d been _devilish_ the previous day, he hadn’t been allowed to go. He’d had to watch the events from the window of his shared room as most of the orphanage had gone. The same sweet smell had drifted over to him a few times, torturous in its temptation.

“Oh come on, Tom,” Harry said, noticing his scowl. “Lighten up. Have some fun.”

“This isn’t fun,” Tom bit out. Harry’s smile slipped a little and Tom found his anger and bitterness at the memory being replaced by guilt at ruining his master’s good mood. “I’m sorry, master,” he said quietly, looking down.

“Do you have bad memories associated with funfairs?” Harry asked perceptively. Tom hesitated for a moment and then sighed.

“Not exactly,” he replied. “More like bad memories associated with being denied the opportunity to go to one,” he explained. Harry’s expression lightened a little.

“Then see this as making up for lost time,” he suggested, giving Tom that crooked smile which made his heart melt every. Damn. Time. “Look,” he continued. “Give it a go. If you’re really not enjoying it, tell me and we’ll go home. OK?” Tom nodded – how could he not? He’d decided to put his master’s needs, his master’s happiness above his own; how could he then justify ruining this because of a stupid memory that happened more than sixty years ago?

“As you wish, master,” he agreed, finding that sense of peace in his submission wiping away the negativity.

They entered the fair-ground and Harry had soon regained his excitement. If he was honest with himself, Tom found that within a fairly short space of time, he had lost his dubiousness and was feeling slightly bubbly himself. He blamed it on the crowd – their enjoyment of the experiences on offer was infection. And on Harry, of course. Harry who had convinced him to go on a ride which threw them around in the air until Tom was feeling sick, reminding him unfavourably of the few times he had flown on a broom. Harry had, of course, _loved_ it and, upon not being able to convince Tom to go again, and not choosing to exert his rights to command Tom’s compliance, proceeded to go on it another _three times_. In a row. By the end of it, even his broom-mad Gryffindor master was looking a bit pale. Tom, taking pity on him, suggested they move on and a few minutes later, Harry was looking better.

The next activity was a bit more to Tom’s liking – they were supposed to shoot muggle guns at cardboard cut-outs.

“Let’s make a wager, shall we?” Harry asked with a gleam in his eyes. Tom raised an eyebrow at him.

“What kind of wager?” he asked, intrigued. Harry shrugged, his action carefully nonchalant.

“Winner can ask the loser to do something and loser has to do it?”

“You can do that anyway,” Tom pointed out. Because wasn’t that the whole point of Harry being the master and Tom being the slave? Harry looked away, a slight blush coming to his cheek.

“Yeah, but…” Harry sighed. “It wouldn’t be something for myself. And you wouldn’t like it.” OK, Tom was rather curious, but also rather apprehensive….

“Very well,” Tom agreed slowly. It wasn’t like Harry’s words had actually invalidated his assertion that Harry could make him do whatever he’d though of without a _wager_. So in a way, it was a potential reward with none of the risk. “Best out of three?” he asked and Harry nodded. Of course, his master had the money, so he paid for both their sessions, the stall owner looking at them slightly speculatively, but his attention was swiftly drawn to more contestants. Harry didn’t need any prompting to start shooting at the cut-outs, not doing very well Tom noted with amusement.

Turning to his own board, Tom started shooting. He had five shots per round and, two shots in, he realised that there was a problem. The shots weren’t going where he expected them to go, and it wasn’t just because he wasn’t used to muggle guns, he was sure. In fact, looking down the tube of the muggle gun, he realised that it was ever-so-slightly damaged. Bent. A smirk touched his lips – a good strategy of the stall owner, that. Bent guns that didn’t shoot straight meant that few, if any people would actually win a prize. So, all the income, and no need to give away the massive stuffed toys which no doubt cost a significant amount of money. Well, Tom felt turnabout was fair play. Besides, he had a wager to win.

Concentrating on the gun, he sent his magic through it in a wandless _reparo_. With an almost imperceptible movement, the tube straightened and Tom took another shot. Ah. Much better. Grinning, he continued shooting, almost effortlessly beating Harry in all three rounds, let alone best of three. That wasn’t to say he was a particularly good shot – actually, he was rather embarrassed to realise that his accuracy with a wand didn’t seem to lend itself to a gun – but he was significantly better than Harry.

“How?!” his master demanded, turning on him after mock-angrily dropping the gun on the counter. Tom just smirked at him as he accepted his prize from the suddenly-grumpy stall owner. He’d seen it and found it…appropriate. Turning to Harry, he couldn’t help a smile from tugging at his own lips as he presented the stuffed toy to his master.

“Here, my snake-in-lion’s clothing master,” he said with a slightly-mocking-but-not-really bow of his head. Harry took a look at the toy and burst out into laughter.

“Trust you,” he said once he’d got control of himself, still grinning widely. Taking the red and yellow stuffed snake from Tom, he wrapped it around his neck. “So, spill. How did you get so many more points than me?” Tom didn’t answer for a long few seconds, drawing out the moment with satisfaction running through him. When Harry raised his eyebrows, looking on the verge of ordering him to speak, though, he opened his mouth.

“The guns were purposefully damaged. I just repaired mine,” he said smugly. Harry looked at him, his mouth open for a moment and then he started laughing again, shaking his head.

“You Slytherin. Not surprising you’d see a dodgy scheme a mile off,” he commented. Tom just shrugged – it wasn’t like he was completely _wrong_. “Let’s get something to eat,” he continued, looking around the area. “There – we can get a hamburger or hotdog.”

“Lovely,” drawled Tom and Harry mock-glared at him. Honestly, a hamburger or hot dog wasn’t particularly appealing, except in that he was hungry and it was food. As expected, when they bought them, the bread was cheap, and so was the meat, the chips were soft and chilled off quickly, and the table at which they sat was sticky with the remnants of a thousand meals. However, it was all worth it for the look on Harry’s face as he bit into his hamburger and ketchup oozed out and dripped down his shirt.

“Have you ever been to one of these, Harry?” Tom asked softly. He shook his head, a dark look passing over his face.

“Dudley used to go with his parents whenever the funfair, the circus, whatever was in town. They never took me. They didn’t even let me go to see it when I was old enough to go on my own.” His tone held the same tones of bitterness that Tom had felt earlier at his own memories, along with a sadness that he hadn’t. Tom reached out a hand and placed it palm up on the table, an invitation for his master to take or leave as he chose. Harry looked at it for a moment and then, quickly wiping his sauce covered fingers off, laid his hand on top and smiled at Tom, a note of gratitude in the expression.

They were silent for a few minutes enjoying, or ‘enjoying’ in Tom’s case, the meal. Tom’s mind was ticking over things and he came to a realisation which made him narrow his eyes at his master.

“You never answered my question about why we’re here,” he pointed out.

“Didn’t I?” Harry asked, all innocence. Tom crossed his arms and looked at Harry with a focused gaze.

“No sex, despite my _clearly_ being available. Going out on Friday night to a funfair. You buying me food… Harry, this isn’t a _date_ , is it?” Harry looked away hurriedly, but he couldn’t stop the smile from coming to his face, despite clearly trying. “Master,” Tom continued in exasperation. “It’s not like you have to take me on a _date_ to have sex with me, for Merlin’s sake.” Then, pausing and quickly looking around, he hastily erected a privacy charm. Harry raised his eyebrows at the feel of the magic going up, but he didn’t argue with it. “I’m here, I’m yours. No need to wine or dine me,” he continued, and then glanced down at the remnants of their meal. “Well, a given value of wining and dining, at least,” he corrected himself dryly. Harry looked back at him, a slightly grumpy expression on his face.

“OK, first of all, this is _also_ to celebrate the end of the NEWTs,” he said, holding up a finger. OK, he had a good point, Tom had to concede. Actually, he’d had a nice dessert planned as a surprise for his master to celebrate that very thing… Well, he supposed he could still give it when they got back to the house. “Second,” Harry continued, raising another finger, “yes, I know I don’t have to ‘wine and dine’ you. Merlin,” he let out a short chuckle, “you’ve been pretty clear on that.” Tom wondered whether he should feel embarrassed that he’d basically been throwing himself at his master recently, but decided that there was no reason to force himself to feel it – he didn’t see anything wrong in making his availability clear to the man who could demand it, regardless of his own desires on the matter. Especially to the man who had the right to demand it, because it was the fact that Harry _hadn’t_ asked for it when he _could have_ that made Tom want it so much. “But I actually wanted to share this with you. To do something together that was fun, and different from everything we’ve ever done. Is that so bad?” Tom was pretty sure Harry had meant the last to come out belligerently, but it instead sounded a little lost.

Feeling bad about how he had jumped on his master – figuratively, since he thought that literally probably wouldn’t be well received – Tom squeezed the hand still lying on top of his.

“Not at all,” he replied softly, feeling warmth bloom in him. “Is it bad that I’m hoping we might have a normal end to a date, though?” A sly grin crept back on Harry’s face, chasing away the grumpiness and making his eyes sparkle.

“You mean the kiss on the doorstep after the gentleman escorts his partner home?” Harry asked innocently. “I’m pretty sure that’s how Hermione described it happening in her stories.” Tom gave him the exasperated look he was no doubt expecting, but found it replaced quickly by another one, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Whatever you want, master,” he replied in a similarly soft tone. “A kiss. Or more. Anything for you. Anything, or nothing.” And it was true – Tom wanted what Harry wanted to give him. Nothing more. Nothing less. Harry’s innocent look vanished, replaced by a mix of pleasure, gratitude, and something that Tom could recognise as _hunger_.

“You know,” Harry started, the thoughtful tone in his voice not completely covering the eagerness. “I think we’ve probably seen enough of the fair, don’t you?”

**XXXExplicit NSFW sceneXXX**

They had barely got in the door when Harry pinned Tom against the wall. Hooking his finger in the D-ring of Tom’s collar, he pulled his slave’s head down to a height more possible for kissing. Absently he noted that Tom’s height was definitely one of his _many_ attractive features…but it did make some things bloody difficult. Ah well, there were other positions they could take which would render it a non-issue. And then the thought was swept away as he attacked Tom’s mouth with his full attention.

The soft sounds Tom made, as Harry’s tongue mapped out the interior of his slave’s mouth, went straight to Harry’s cock. He pressed himself closer to the body he had caged with his own, feeling the answering hardness of Tom’s excitement. A few moments later, he pulled away and admired the mess he’d made of his usually composed companion. Tom’s pupils were blown wide, making his usually bright red eyes look dark. He was panting, and his lips were already starting to swell slightly. Pink had rising in his cheeks and Harry couldn’t help reaching up to stroke at the delicate colour. At the gentle touch of his fingers, Tom’s eyes half closed and he leant into the contact like a cat.

“Come, my Tom,” Harry said, surprised at the husky, aroused tone of his voice. “Let us finally consummate our agreement.” The effect that the words and tone had on Tom was unmistakable – his slave shivered and, this close, Harry could hear the low whimper that emerged. A moment later, after swallowing a couple of times, he managed to speak.

“As you wish, master,” he murmured, the soft tone and downcast eyes not serving to hide one iota of the eagerness thrumming through his body. Harry could feel the tension of his body, and the way his cock had jumped at the thought.

“Then come,” Harry said again, not letting go of the D-ring, but using it to keep Tom close to him as he headed towards the stairs. It was a little awkward at first, but they soon fell into a rhythm, Tom clearly carefully matching his steps to his master’s so that he didn’t either pull on the collar or walk on the backs of Harry’s feet. The benefit to being this close was that Harry could actually feel his lover’s – or soon to be so – heat radiating on his back. Or maybe he was just imagining it – it was hard to tell whether the heat was from his own arousal and anticipation or from an outside source.

Getting into their bedroom, Harry led Tom to the centre of the space, a few paces away from the bed. He pulled Tom down for another kiss, nibbling at his lips and caressing them with his tongue. Then he let go and stepped away, sitting on the bed. Tom looked at him, the glazed look giving way to uncertainty.

“Strip,” Harry instructed, taking pleasure in the order. Because those red eyes were fixed on his at the moment of him speaking, he was able to see the flare of heat in them at the command. Biting his lip slightly, Tom lifted suddenly shaking hands to his shirt buttons. A sudden flash of concern sparking within him had Harry hold up his hand in a silent order to wait. Tom paused, looking at him questioningly. “Remember,” Harry said, his tone a lot softer than it had been, “that if I ask you to do anything you truly don’t want to do, something you fear may lead to harm to yourself or others, you have your safe-word.” A warm smile curled across Tom’s lips and his eyes were very warm as they looked back at Harry.

“I know, master,” he replied, his voice sure. “And I want this, I do.” He shrugged, a note of self-depreciation in his gesture. “It’s just…been a long time…I’m a little nervous,” he said with a small laugh. Harry smiled and got up, walking over to him and lifting a hand to Tom’s face. He stroked Tom’s cheek for a moment and then reached up higher and stroked Tom’s hair, massaging the back of his head. Tom’s eyes almost closed completely and Harry was sure he heard a sound akin to a purr emerge, to his amusement.

“No shame in that,” Harry told him softly. “I think the only reason I’m not nervous is because I know you want this as much as I do. But you don’t need to worry – I’m not planning anything tonight except for what we will both enjoy.”

“Master, I trust you,” Tom responded, his eyes opening slowly. “Do what you wish to, with me. I am yours.” Harry couldn’t help using his hand on the back of Tom’s head to pull him down for a soft, slow kiss that was almost chaste, and all the sweeter for it. Then, releasing his slave, Harry stepped back towards the bed and relaxed on its edge.

“Then strip,” he said, his voice a lot firmer than it had been a moment before. Tom’s hands immediately went back to his shirt buttons and he started opening them again with a lot more alacrity than before. Harry was pleased to see that his fingers weren’t shaking anymore. Letting his shirt slide off his shoulders, Tom’s hands went to his trouser buttons, making short work of them. Harry enjoyed watching the glide of fabric over Tom’s silken skin, the soft sound that it made as it caressed and then fell to the floor in a heap. The fact that Tom didn’t immediately tidy his clothes away was another sign of his eagerness for what was about to happen.

In short order, Tom was standing there naked except for his collar, his expression a mixture between pride and nervousness. Harry stood up once more and approached his slave. He finally, _finally_ allowed himself to do what he’d been longing to do almost since Tom had arrived and Harry had noticed how attractive he was. He stroked Tom’s skin, running his hands along the planes of his back, the curve of his waist, the sharpness of his hip, enjoying the small whimpers and moans that emerged from his slave’s throat.

“You’re such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” Harry murmured throatily in his ear, enjoying the shiver and soft moan his words provoked.

He then stepped around to Tom’s front and continued his exploration of the scattering of hair on his chest, the hard nubs of his nipples which he couldn’t resist pinching lightly – to a sudden gasp from the red-eyed man – the v-shape pointing directly to where Tom’s rock-hard cock was bobbing, its colour a deep red that signified exactly how aroused he was. He didn’t touch that member which was begging for his attention, though. Not yet. He returned to Tom’s back, caressing his buttocks and sliding a finger lightly up the crack between them – to another gasp from his slave.

Pressing himself up against Tom’s back, he curled his arms around the man’s chest and held him tightly against himself for a moment, his cock, still trapped in material, pressing at the line he had stroked a moment ago. He luxuriated in the feeling of his slave’s naked body against his clothed one, and suspected that Tom was enjoying the contrast, if the shiver that ran through him was anything to judge by.

Then, letting go, he went back over to the bed and retook his place, his legs open. As he had walked, he had loosened his own trousers, undoing the buttons and zip of his fly and shifting the fabric about so his own rock-hard cock was able to emerge. Looking at Tom’s expression, he was gratified to see _hunger_ in his face, that pink tongue slipping out to lick at his lips, probably without his slave’s intention. Pointing at the space between his legs, Harry gave his next instruction.

“Kneel.” As if pulled by a string, Tom immediately moved to do so, sliding gracefully to his knees in front of Harry, his face directly level with that hard cock. Harry wanted to just grab his hair and force his cock down his slave’s throat, feel the warmth and the convulsions as Tom choked slightly, trying to adjust to the intrusion. He didn’t – he’d promised that there would be nothing but pleasure for them both that night. There was time enough for things like that later – this, the first time, was no place for it. Seeing Tom’s hands twisting, as if not sure where to put them, he instructed his slave to grasp them behind his back. Tom immediately complied, sending a thrill of exhilaration through Harry. “Have you done this before?” he asked. Tom shook his head.

“I never wanted to lower myself to it before,” he admitted. “The most I would do was use my hand to stroke them to orgasm once I had come inside my…conquest. If I felt like they deserved it.” And wasn’t that telling. It didn’t surprise Harry in the slightest that Tom had always been a selfish lover, nor that he would describe his previous partners as ‘conquests’. If he had to hazard a guess, he would imagine that the only times Tom had had sex before, had been when there was something more to gain out of it than pleasure. Well. This would be different.

“Alright, well, guess you’ll be learning,” he said, no note of question in his voice. Tom had given himself to Harry and Harry had promised to make use of him. He had his safe-word, so if he hadn’t used that, anything was fair game. “Have you had your cock sucked before?” he asked, suspecting he knew the answer.

“A few times, master,” Tom replied, Harry nodding in satisfaction at his suspicions being right. “But…I haven’t done anything…sexual, in oh…thirty years? Maybe even forty.” Harry preferred _not_ to think of the age difference between them, but…yeah, OK. It was hard to imagine Voldemort being interested in anything that wasn’t murder and torture. And actually, Harry suddenly felt glad that Voldemort _hadn’t_ had a libido…although he forced his thoughts away from that train of thought out of fear of it spoiling his erection completely, and the night with it.

“OK, well, start with your tongue. Lick at the head of my cock.” Tom followed his instructions with only the briefest hesitation. Harry shuddered slightly at the feeling of that warm, wet muscle sliding around the most sensitive areas of his cock. Tom clearly remembered something of what his partners had done to him; that or he was a natural. He wasn’t just licking Harry’s cockhead - he was swirling his tongue around the glans, dipping his tongue into the slit at the top, and then rubbing it along the sensitive area just below the slit. “Mm,” Harry couldn’t help moaning slightly. “Good job, Tom,” he managed to get out. “Now, covering your teeth with your lips, start sucking the end of my cock.” Tom complied immediately, and another groan burst out of Harry at the delicious sensation. “That’s good, that’s good,” he murmured. “Keep using your tongue…good boy,” he praised as Tom did so.

“Alright. Start bobbing your head a bit. Each time you bob down, try to go a little further down my cock.” He had to pause for a moment in pleasure as Tom followed his instructions to the letter. “Don’t push yourself too far,” he cautioned. “We’ll push your limits later, but for now just keep to what’s comfortable for you.” Tom made a humming noise as acknowledgement and just increased his efforts, pushing himself down Harry’s shaft until he made a small gagging noise. He quickly pulled off Harry’s cock, looking slightly uncomfortable and a slight teariness appearing at the corner of his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what happens if you push too far,” Harry said with a note of amusement. “Don’t do that now,” he instructed as Tom returned to sucking the head of his cock. “Mm. Just…just use one of your hands to stroke the rest of my cock…mm, like that. Good boy,” he murmured, pleased to see that Tom kept the other one in the small of his back, even though it was no longer held there.

Unable, and unwilling, to resist, he reached out one of his hands to stroke through Tom’s hair. He wasn’t going to control his slave’s movements on his cock, not tonight, but he couldn’t help fantasising about it, imagining weaving his fingers into his lover’s hair, forcing him to go at _Harry’s_ pace. He tightened his hand in Tom’s hair, pulling at the strands a little, and heard a moan from his slave’s throat. “You like that, do you?” he asked, trying to sound seductive, but ending up only sounding a bit breathless. He did it again and Tom redoubled his efforts on Harry’s cock.

Groaning, Harry had to pull him off, or the whole situation would finish him off all too soon. He didn’t regret teasing Tom for the whole of that week – he’d had two main reasons for it. One was to verify for himself once more that Tom really _was_ open to this sort of thing with Harry, and that he would be open to the _kind_ of sex Harry enjoyed. That one had been definitely proven – the ease with which Tom had submitted to his hands, to his mouth, had had Harry throbbing in his pants more than once at the mere memory. The other was to drive Tom to the point of desperation, to leave him on tenterhooks wondering _when_ it would happen, to start fantasising about it so much that he wouldn’t feel as nervous when it actually came about. He wasn’t sure that had been as effective, but the evening was definitely going well enough to satisfy Harry. Still, what he hadn’t anticipated was how much the situation would torture _Harry himself._ Sure, he’d wanked a couple of times, but when the release hadn’t been especially satisfying, he’d stopped. As a result, he feared that he would pop if Tom continued his – surprisingly good for a self-admitted first-timer – administrations.

“Alright, go lie on the bed. On your back with your hands above your head,” Harry growled, his voice husky and low with arousal. Tom pulled off his cock. Harry couldn’t resist pulling him in for a deep, devouring kiss at the sight of his bruised lips, the tear tracks running from the corners of his eyes. He could taste some remnants of his cock, which made him grimace a little, but it wasn’t enough to make him stop. Instead, he searched for that flavour which was all _Tom_ , the flavour which he feared he’d already become addicted to, in the few times so far that he’d been exposed to it. When he pulled away, Tom chased after his lips until Harry was out of reach. Harry chuckled a little. “Only what I give you, my slave,” he said affectionately, loving the fact that Tom wanted him just as much as he wanted Tom, but also loving that Tom let him take control…wanted him to take control. “OK, get to it,” he reminded Tom, not blaming the man from having got distracted. His slave blinked at him a couple of times before the words registered, and reminded him of the previous order.

Tom stood up, the graceful lines of his body and the flex of his muscles under his skin making Harry’s mouth water. He wanted to kiss every part of that body. He wanted to mark it, make it _his_ so Tom would have no doubt, looking in the mirror, who he belonged to. Harry stood up as Tom moved around the edge of the bed, keeping the man in his sights, not willing to lose sight of that magnificent form for a single moment.

As commanded, Tom lay on the bed, his hands placed on the pillow above his head, his legs open and vulnerable. The sight sent another thrill of desire and exhilaration through Harry. The thought that this was _his_ …his not because of an edict of Lady Magic, or because the collar around his neck was forcing him to obey, but because Tom _wanted_ to be there… A feeling swelled up inside Harry which he couldn’t name. It was joy, wonder, and a deep, deep caring which he had never felt for anyone before. All he knew was that Tom was infinitesimally precious to him in that moment, and he would defend the man against any threat, even should it come from other who he was close to, such as his best friends. Seeing the man laid out naked on his bed, completely compliant, completely vulnerable… He felt a pain in his heart which didn’t feel _bad_ , it just felt _intense_. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a similar feeling looking at Tom, but this was the strongest he’d felt it.

Stripping off his own clothes quickly and perfunctorily, he felt a blush rise to his cheeks as he was aware of Tom’s eyes running over his body in the same way as his had run over Tom’s on two occasions now. He didn’t know why he felt nervous. It wasn’t like this was the first time being naked in front of someone; it wasn’t even his first time being naked in front of someone he was going to fuck. But this…this felt different. Deeper. More important. And so when he met Tom’s gaze, he knew his feelings of trepidation would be clear for the man to see.

He needn’t have worried – all he saw in his partner’s gaze was heat and desire. It made a wave of pleasure pour through Harry and he felt his shoulders straighten, his confidence returning after that momentary blip. Maybe this was why Tom had seemed so willing to strip for him in the kitchen, just over a week ago? Maybe the heat that had been in his own gaze had given Tom the confidence to stand, to kneel wearing nothing but his collar.

Advancing towards the bed, he crawled onto it and placed one hand next to Tom’s head for support. The other moved above his head and pulled his wrists so they crossed, and then covered the join. He heard the hitch in Tom’s breath and saw the dilation in his pupils, and was satisfied that his slave enjoyed the sensation of restriction. Oh yes, they were _definitely_ going to explore that book he’d bought from the kink shop, the one about rope bondage. Wicked images flashed through his head, but he pushed them away – he wanted to enjoy the here and now, not think about the future. Time enough for that later.

Leaning in, he once more captured Tom’s mouth in a kiss, putting a little more pressure into the hand holding his wrists in place, and drinking the small whimpers that spilled from his slave’s throat. Then, releasing both his mouth and his wrists, he started to move down Tom’s body, indulging his need to kiss and lick at the alabaster masterpiece laid out before him. He nibbled and kissed the smooth column of Tom’s throat, paying attention to the hollow beneath his ear, and the join of his neck to his shoulder. Mouthing at the sharp points of Tom’s collarbone, he moved lower, taking one nipple into his mouth and rolling the other one between his fingers.

Tom had been making small sounds that Harry treasured from the start – he’d even enjoyed the cut-off disappointed whine when he had released his grip on Tom’s wrists – but at the manipulation of his nipples, the sounds grew in volume and pitch, almost becoming small cries.

“Like that, do you?” asked Harry with a somewhat smug grin. Tom’s eyes were slightly glazed, but he managed, after a few light breaths in and out, to respond.

“Very much, master.” Oh, he sounded _wrecked_ , Harry thought with glee. The combination of the blow-job he’d given earlier and the sheer _desire_ running through him had made an absolute mess of Tom’s voice. _I like it_ , Harry decided with an internal grin, resolving to make sure it happened as often as possible in the future. So, with a quick, chaste kiss to Tom’s lips, he continued his journey, sliding his hands down the flat, almost concave, muscles of Tom’s belly, licking and kissing as he went. Reaching the V between Tom’s hip bones, he paused, breathing out a hot breath a mere inch away from Tom’s throbbing manhood. He could feel the tension of muscles underneath his touch and he knew Tom was waiting with bated breath. With a wicked grin, Harry moved away, deftly avoiding the area where Tom most wanted his touch, and kissing and touching the milky skin of his inner thighs instead. He heard his slave let out a breathy groan of disappointment and tutted playfully.

“All in good time, my Tom,” he said, mock-reprovingly. “It’s what _I_ want, remember,” he continued. He wasn’t expecting an answer, but got one anyway.

“Of course, master. I’m sorry.” At the sound of guilt in Tom’s voice, Harry frowned and looked up – this was _not_ a time for guilt, and he didn’t want it intruding on what should be a special occasion.

“No need to feel guilty,” he told Tom firmly, holding his red gaze to emphasise his seriousness. “You’re doing very well. All I want you to do is lie there with your hands above your head and take my actions, and you’re doing exactly that. I like hearing your reactions, don’t forget, so there’s no need to apologise. Understand?”

“I understand, master,” Tom replied quietly. An unfamiliar expression crossed his face: in anyone else Harry would recognise it as…adoration?...Love? Either way, it sent conflicting feelings of joy and fear through Harry, so he just smiled at his slave and went back to his task.

He finished exploring Tom’s legs, kissing and stroking even his feet, although that clearly made Tom uncomfortable, if the tension in his tendons was anything to judge by. And then, everything covered except for one area…Harry headed back up. Once more he hovered for a few minutes, his mouth an inch away from Tom’s angrily-flushed cock, watching it twitch as his warm breath hit it. And then he closed the distance and took the head into his mouth. Tom’s breath rushed out of him in an explosive moan, the sudden rush of pleasure after all of Harry’s teasing clearly too much for him to hold in.

Giving head had never been Harry’s favourite activity per se, but he _did_ enjoy giving pleasure to his partners, and for men, sucking their cocks was a very obvious way of doing that. Pinning Tom’s suddenly shifting hips down to the bed, he took his time, swirling his tongue around the head and mixing shallow dips of the now-wet cockhead into his mouth with engulfing the head and shaft deeper into his mouth. All the while, he kept his eyes on Tom, watching every twitch of his body, every grimace of pleasure, every clench of his hands in the pillow above his head. He listened to the noises of enjoyment that spilled from his precious slave’s mouth, to the whimpers and the groans, the breathy sighs and deeper moans.

Pulling off for a moment, he looked around for the lube. There. On the bedside. Without his wand handy, he quickly hopped off the bed, grabbed it, side-tracked to his pile of clothes to fetch his wand, and then was back before Tom had been able to even register his disappearance. When his mouth engulfed Tom’s cockhead again, any thoughts that had been in his slave’s mind quickly vanished as his head fell back with a groan.

Clicking the bottle open, he multitasked, squeezing some of the thick, clear lube onto his fingers and started stroking the crack of Tom’s arse. At the first touch, Tom looked up. Harry, his eyes still firmly fixed on his slave’s face, immediately noticed the slight trepidation mixed with arousal in his expression. Pulling off Tom’s cock, he spoke.

“Are you OK?” he asked softly. “Have you ever done this before?” he added, a sudden thought occurring. Tom shook his head, proving his suspicion true.

“No,” he said, a note of…something, in his voice. “I never allowed anyone to penetrate me. Not even with a finger,” he added. Looking away, he continued. “I always…when I was young, it was seen as…the woman’s role. The submissive role. I never wanted my…my temporary partners to see me like that.” Harry hummed. He supposed it made sense: judging from Hermione’s rants on the subject, the forties weren’t really a time for flexible thinking, not even in the Wizarding world where at least homosexuality had been accepted.

“If you prefer, you can penetrate me tonight,” he offered after a moment of thought. “I mean, I’ll want to penetrate you at some point, at least for you to try it, but it doesn’t have to be tonight.” Tom’s eyes flew to his, shock written in them.

“But master, it…I should…it would be right for you to take that role: _I’m_ the slave, not you,” he pointed out. Harry gave him a reassuring grin.

“Oh don’t worry, whatever position we take, _I’ll_ be fucking _you_. But I don’t need to penetrate you to do that. I prefer it, certainly, but I can make an exception for this time.” Tom was looking at him with surprise, and…wonder?

“Thank you for the offer,” he said after a pause, “but master, if you want to…to penetrate me, then I want to try it. I’m just a little…nervous,” he explained, looking away for a moment before his eyes were drawn back to meet Harry’s. Harry moved up the bed and used his non-lubed hand to stroke the side of Tom’s face. Kissing the man on the lips he tried to convey his gratitude that Tom was willing to _try_ , along with his joy in the man’s submission to something that he was clearly a bit scared of, just to please Harry.

“Alright,” Harry told him a moment later, moving back down the bed. “I can’t promise that there will be no discomfort – there probably will be because one, you’re not used to it, and two, you’re probably going to tense your muscles which makes it more uncomfortable. However, I can promise that I’ll go slowly and that, if you want me to slow down even more, just say and I will. And if you feel any sharp pain, tell me, OK?” Tom managed a small smile, though it looked a little forced, and nodded.

“I trust you master,” he murmured, and made his actions reflect his words, placing his head back down on the pillow, and doing his best to relax. Deciding that getting to it sooner rather than later would be the best thing to do, Harry went back to his previous multitasking. Before he started properly stroking Tom’s hole, however, he quickly cast a specialised cleaning charm he’d learned from one of his wartime lovers. Tom jumped a little at the feel of it, but since Harry knew from experience it didn’t hurt, just felt a little cold in places that weren’t used to feeling cold, he soon settled back down.

While sucking gently on Tom’s cock – enough to keep it interested and take the edge off the discomfort of preparation, but not enough to actually move Tom towards orgasm – Harry’s fingers slipped into his crack. He started stroking that tightly furled muscle with his index finger, not penetrating yet, just stroking and swirling gently.

As he felt the muscle begin to relax a little, he started dipping just the tip of his finger in. Not even a centimetre in, it was still enough to make Tom tense up, so Harry just paused his movements, only wriggling his finger slightly, until Tom relaxed a little again. Deciding to change the angle a little, he pulled his mouth off Tom’s cock and gently removed his hand from his slave’s buttocks.

“You’re doing well,” he said reassuringly at the quick look Tom gave him in question. “Use your hands to hold your thighs up. Don’t let go, unless you want me to stop,” he instructed. Tom obeyed with a bit of uncertainty, holding his thighs up and away, exposing his hole. Swallowing at the feeling of the air touching such a private part of his, his hole also winked at Harry, tensing and releasing a couple of times. “Good boy,” Harry praised, settling back between his legs. It was a little harder to suck his cock like this, but he managed to get a good position, choosing to stroke his slave’s hard dick rather than suck it at this stage. The benefit of that meant that he could see both Tom’s face and his hole, two sights which brought a large amount of pleasure to him.

Bringing his hand back to Tom’s hole, he continued what he’d started earlier, slowly dipping his finger deeper, and deeper in. Once he’d managed to get the first part of his finger in, he started thrusting gently, knowing from experience that the friction would feel more pleasurable than just holding it in place. He made sure to have plenty of lube coating his digit, however, wincing at the thought of using too little. By the time he got his first finger in as far as possible, Tom was starting to make noises that sounded more needy than pained. Searching around, he found the small button of flesh on the front wall of his hole and, with a grin of satisfaction, started rubbing and pressing it. Tom made a startled noise of pleasure, looking down at Harry in surprise. Harry tapped it again and he let his head fall back with a groan.

“Yep, that’s your prostate,” Harry explained. “It’s what makes penetration totally worth it.” He grinned as Tom groaned again, sounding uncertain, but inclined to agree. Having found the button, he continued to massage it, adding more lube when necessary, and slowly introducing a second digit. It took a while, but finally Tom had two fingers pounding him. A bit of time later and it was three fingers sliding in and out to the accompaniment of his now-enthusiastic moans and barely-formed words.

The completely wrecked look on Tom’s face, the way his expression twisted and screwed up in pleasure…it was like a drug for Harry, a drug that he knew he’d never get enough of. But the time had finally come. Tom was loose enough to take him without too much discomfort and Harry was more than impatient to finally get his cock inside his slave. Maybe he should have got Tom to suck him off until he popped earlier – he was worried that he would explode as soon as he entered the silky-smooth, hot cavern that his fingers had been caressing for so long.

“Get up on your hands and knees,” Harry ordered him, knowing his tone sounded impatient.

“Master?” Tom asked, almost deliriously.

“On your hands and knees. Now,” Harry repeated him, emphasising his command with a sharp smack to Tom’s outer thigh. The slight pain seemed to get through to him in ways his words hadn’t, and Tom swiftly scrambled into the position. Harry took a moment to just savour the sight in front of him – Tom’ hole winking and slightly gaping, open to the air and to Harry; the smooth lines of his back; the slight redness from where Harry had smacked him on his pale skin…. And then he moved forward, placing the tip of his cock at Tom’s entrance. “Move back on my cock,” he ordered Tom, wanting his slave to go at his pace, just for now. It took a moment for Tom to realise his meaning, but then he was pressing back slowly.

First the head of Harry’s cock popped in past the ring of muscle, and he couldn’t help moaning at the overwhelming sensation even as his slave made an answering groan. Merlin, despite all the preparation, Tom was _tight_! And so _hot_. It took all of Harry’s willpower not to just slam inside and come. But he didn’t, because he was the master, not his base instincts. Slowly, far too slowly for Harry’s peace of mind, Tom took inch after inch of Harry’s cock until, finally, he was pressed against the base, Harry’s balls pressing against Tom’s body. He started to pull off, but Harry gripped his hips tight.

“Did I say you could move forward?” he growled, leaning forwards so he could speak closer to Tom’s ear. And if the movement made his cock shift inside Tom and press against that pleasure button of his, well, all the better, right?

“No master,” Tom whimpered.

“That’s because now, my precious slave, now, it’s _my_ pace.” The helpless whimper that sounded again was music to Harry’s ears and he pulled back upright so he could set a fast pace, slamming in and out of Tom. He used his slave’s hips as handles for his movement, pulling Tom back and forth as he pummelled his slave’s insides. Tom didn’t seem to have any problem with that, moans bursting in an almost continual wail as his prostate was abused by Harry’s carefully aimed stroke.

“Master, master, master,” Tom started chanting, his head hanging low, his voice sounding completely overwhelmed. “Master, please, please, please!” he begged.

“Please what?” Harry panted as he held his orgasm off with sheer force of will.

“Master, please. Can I come, please!” he pleaded, desperate. Harry saw white and worried for a moment that it was his own release which had crept over him at his slave’s words. But no, it was just immense pleasure at the implication of Tom _asking for permission to come_.

“Come,” he ordered gruffly, and the moment that those internal muscles started clenching at his cock, he was gone too.

**XXXEnd NSFW Explicit sceneXXX**

They lay on the bed, both panting. Harry had pulled out of Tom, making him wince at the sudden emptiness and the slow slide of liquid out of him. Fortunately, since Tom _certainly_ didn’t have his wits about him for wandless magic, Harry had proceeded to cast the same charm as before, which he assumed was for cleaning at the sudden absence of semen dripping down his thigh, and something he could tell was a healing one to help along the process of recovery from the abrupt alleviation of discomfort. Then he’d slumped on the bed next to Tom, pulling the man into his arms. Tom had gone willingly at his first insistent tug. They just lay there for a few moments, Tom enjoying the afterglow of what had to be the best orgasm he’d ever had.

The whole process hadn’t been what he’d expected at all. That Harry had wanted him to suck his cock hadn’t been a surprise – he’d figured that that was likely to be part of it. He’d been surprised, however, at how much he liked it. The taste…he wasn’t overly fond of it, he decided. It wasn’t terribly offensive, but it wasn’t his favourite. What he _had_ enjoyed, was knowing that he was giving pleasure to his master, obvious in every sound Harry made, in the twitching of the member in his mouth, in the clenching of his fingers in Tom’s hair. Tom had appreciated Harry letting him set the pace – he could tell from the restrained strength in Harry’s fingers that he wanted to control the movement – because from his one aborted attempt to push further, he had learned that he shouldn’t run before he could walk. He had also gained a new appreciation for the couple of…partners he’d had in the past who had been able to swallow his whole cock which, in proportion to the rest of his body, was longer than Harry’s. Not as thick, though. He was determined to be able to do that for his master, one day.

Then there was the actual sex. First of all, he’d been astounded that Harry had actually offered to be the penetrated one. Astounded and grateful to have a master who cared so much about his preferences despite being able to do _anything_ to him. It was completely foreign to Tom’s mind that the more dominant one between two men should be the one on the bottom. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it, though he tentatively believed Harry when he said he could be on the bottom and still be the more dominant. He hoped he’d find out at some point, though the penetration hadn’t been at _all_ what he’d expected.

He hadn’t been surprised that Harry had taken time over preparation – given Harry’s general care and consideration for others, he hadn’t really expected to be turned over roughly and immediately entered dry. He suspected other masters would be perfectly happy to do that, or only use enough lubrication to ensure their own comfort, but he knew Harry well enough to be pretty certain that he wouldn’t do that. Not on Tom’s first time, anyway. The amount of time taken, though…that was a surprise. He’d prepared his partners occasionally, though usually they did it to themselves, but even then, it had been a lubrication spell, a couple of fingers, and that was it. Perhaps ten minutes, no more. It wasn’t like Tom had been particularly aware of time passing with Harry – he’d been rather too focused on the sensations – but his master must have had to have spent at least half an hour on foreplay. Not to mention, of course, that Harry had _sucked his cock_! He had _not_ been expecting that. Had not thought that Harry would lower himself to such a demeaning task.

But when Harry did it, or in fact, when he did it to Harry, it wasn’t demeaning. It wasn’t something taken, but something given. He’d enjoyed giving pleasure to Harry, and he rather suspected Harry had enjoyed the same, judging by the amount of time he had spent looking at Tom’s expressions – he had barely taken his eyes off Tom the whole time.

The first finger inside had felt uncomfortable, strange. But Harry hadn’t just shoved it in, to Tom’s relief, instead being patient with him and his inexperience. And then his prostate…. Now he understood why his partners had sometimes moaned, sometimes even come without touching their cocks. It had felt strange, almost like he’d needed to void his bladder, but at the same time had been…an indescribable pleasure. Combined with the stimulation of his cock, he’d been lost to pleasure, the pain of the stretching perhaps even adding to the pleasure as his brain confused pleasure and pain so they were indistinguishable.

The actual fucking had been…overwhelming. He’d been lost in the sensation; lost in the smell of his master’s scent, the sound of his master’s noises of pleasure and exertion; lost in the feeling of being taken, owned, _used_. When he’d felt his orgasm coming on, it had been the most natural thing to ask for his master’s permission, to try his best to hold himself back until he knew that it was acceptable to release. And when it had hit… Merlin, if _every_ time was like that with Harry, he’d become a nymphomaniac in no time!

He sighed happily, the breath escaping him with barely a sound. He felt right in his skin, right in the arms of his master, just…content. Could he even say happy? The feeling was so foreign to him, he could barely identify it. The fingers which had been gently tracing patterns on his shoulder paused for a moment.

“Are you OK, Tom?” Harry murmured in question. Tom twisted his head so he was looking up towards his master from his position on Harry’s chest.

“Master, I love you,” he said, the words slipping out of him so naturally. Harry’s face was initially blank, and he bit his lip, a momentary fear going through him that he’d said too much, that he’d been too honest. He didn’t expect Harry to return his emotions, didn’t expect to hear the words back. But he also didn’t want his master to feel like he _had_ to say it, just because Tom had. Then Harry’s expression melted into something like wonder, something like understanding.

“I love you too,” he said, almost disbelieving. Tom frowned at him.

“You don’t need to say it to make me feel better,” he told his master, a note of remonstration in his voice. Harry half-grinned and shook his head as much as he could on the pillow.

“I’m not,” he insisted. “It’s just…I felt something earlier – actually, I’ve been feeling something for a while – but I couldn’t name it, or I thought it was just care, affection, like. I hadn’t thought it could be _love_ …but…” he trailed off and the hand which was lying on his shoulder, holding him tightly to Harry’s body, moved so that it was stroking the nape of his neck. “I love you Tom Riddle,” he said earnestly. “Maybe that makes me a fool, but it’s a foolishness I’ll happily embrace.” Tom felt a wave of warmth go through him and tug irresistibly at his lips until a smile stretched across his face.

“Then we’re both fools, master,” he agreed.

“Together,” Harry replied, his gaze as warm as the fire in the sitting room, and just as comforting.

“Together,” he replied, knowing that he looked like a besotted idiot, and not caring one jot.

XXX

Later, much later, Tom remembered the surprise dessert he’d cooked. They’d moved from the bed to the couch downstairs, neither of them wanting to stop cuddling, but feeling a bit restless in bed. Of course, they’d first had another round in the shower, Harry slipping back inside Tom’s still-loose hole as he pinned his moaning slave against the tiles, pounding him until he came again and then following Tom with a groan of his own. Tom rubbed his face momentarily at the reminder of the lines he’d earned on his cheek from being pressed against the tile. Then he thought of the dessert once more.

“Master, I made something for you to celebrate the end of your NEWTs,” he said, looking up. Harry pulled his attention from the quidditch magazine he was reading, and looked down to meet his slave’s gaze with a curious tilt to his eyebrows.

“What?” Tom half-smiled, knowing his eyes were probably sparkling with wickedness.

“May I get it?” he asked playfully, though the real question remained underneath it. Harry drew the moment out until Tom almost gave in to squirming in anticipation.

“Sure,” he allowed finally, a mock-high-handed tone in his voice. “Go get my treat, slave,” he ‘ordered’ and Tom quickly rose to his feet.

“Yes, _master_ ,” he replied, bowing deeply with a hint of playful mockery, keeping his eyes on Harry’s humour-filled gaze. Swiftly straightening, he turned and left the room, going to the kitchen and getting the plate out of the fridge. Then, a thought occurred and he fetched another item from the cupboard, opening the box and pouring it into a jug. Not sure if his master would prefer it warm or cold, he decided to take it as is. Using his wandless magic to levitate a plate and fork behind him, he walked back into the sitting-room. Nearing the couch, he saw Harry’s eyes light up with excitement and anticipation.

“You _didn’t_ ,” he exclaimed, glee filling his voice.

“I thought it would be a nice treat,” Tom told him, satisfaction filling him at the obvious pleasure of his master at his actions.

“Gimme!” Harry ordered making grabby hands at the plate.

“Warm or cold?” Tom asked, not complying with the order straight away. “I wasn’t sure so these are cold at the moment.” Harry considered the question for a moment.

“Warm,” he decided. “Oh!” he exclaimed, noticing the jug. “Did you get custard too?” Tom nodded. “Then I’ll have that cold. It’s always a nice contrast.”

“Very well, master,” Tom replied warmly, bringing the levitated plate around to his front and moving one of the tarts onto it. He had to set the plate he was holding down on the table with the fork before he could apply the warming charm, not confident enough in his dual-channelling abilities to try a levitation and warming charm simultaneously. Also, he thought his master would kill him, or cry, if he got one of them wrong and ruined the dessert. Even if there were three others on the plate.

Handing the now warm plate to his master with a slight bow of his head, he also passed over the jug of custard, exchanging it for the fork a moment later. He set the jug down with the other three tarts and then watched his master’s face as he took his first bite. An expression of rapture took over his face.

“Mm,” he moaned, the sound almost as dirty as it had been when Tom was sucking his dick. “Warm treacle tart with custard is the _best_ thing in the world,” he declared. Tom found a smile curling the corner of his mouth without his permission. Not that he would have denied it a place, but it was the principle of the thing.

“You approve then, I take it?” he asked, sitting back down on the couch, though not putting his head back into its place on Harry’s lap since the space was currently occupied with treacle tart and custard.

“Hmm,” he pretended to think. “You bring me my favourite dessert as a surprise gift for finishing a week of the most hellish exams I’ve ever taken? No,” he said his tone heavy with sarcasm. “I _hate_ it.” Then he smiled crookedly at Tom, his eyes soft. “Thank you,” he said, his tone serious and grateful. “I really appreciate this, not just because it’s my favourite dessert, but the thought that went into it. In fact,” he said, taking a closer look at the tart, “did you _make_ this?” Tom nodded.

“I found the recipe in one of the cooking books and went to the shop to get the ingredients,” he explained, fidgeting slightly and looking down. “I know I went out without permission, but we didn’t have the treacle I needed. Or the flour.” A hand came into view and gently put pressure on his chin. Tom followed its direction, looking up and meeting his master’s eyes reluctantly. When he met the emerald gaze, however, there was no anger or condemnation in it.

“Tom, I wouldn’t have given you standing permission to leave the wards if I was worried about you popping out to the shops,” he said with amusement, but a firm note underneath. “I appreciate you spending time on making this for me, and I don’t have any problem with you going out to get the ingredients. I mean, if you want to go somewhere else, I want you to talk to me about it first, but going to the shops for food or clothes that you know we need is perfectly fine. If you have a question about whether something is allowed or not, just ask, OK?”

“Yes, master,” Tom replied, dipping his head briefly. Harry gave him a smile and then used his fork to cut another piece, moaning indecently again. Tom just settled against the cushions of the couch and watched him eat with a smile on his face.

“Don’t you want any?” Harry asked, gesturing to the other three treacle tarts on the plate. Tom shook his head.

“I don’t have that much of a sweet tooth, master,” he replied.

“I know _that_ ,” Harry said almost with pique as if Tom thought he’d forgotten the conversation they’d had all those months ago – which he had thought, but that was beside the point. “But you need to at least taste your creation. Here.” He used his fork to cut another piece and held it out to Tom. Leaning forward, Tom wrapped his lips around the fork, gently taking the piece of treacle tart smothered in custard, his eyes not leaving Harry’s emerald gaze. He saw the flare of heat within them and took note of the reaction with one part of his mind while the other part concentrated on the cloying sweetness in his mouth. It was far too sweet for him, almost overwhelmingly so, but he had to admit that the texture was pleasing. “So?” Harry asked, his tone a little gruffer than normal. “What do you think of your efforts?” Tom considered it.

“Too sweet for me, master,” he started, “but a good texture…a good first attempt,” he allowed. Harry chuckled.

“ _A good first attempt_ ,” he repeated. “You’re too critical on yourself, Tom. This is the kind of thing I was _dreaming_ of in that tent.” He fell silent, the smile fading off his face as he clearly slipped into memories.

“Will you tell me about it?” Tom asked softly. It took a moment for Harry to react, but when he did, he blinked almost owlishly at his slave.

“Huh? Tell you about what?”

“About the tent. About your experiences during the…during the war.” He knew that hearing about it would be painful, but he wanted to know. Whether it was for himself or Harry, he couldn’t be sure. Harry looked away and sighed.

“Alright,” he said finally, at the point when Tom was about to withdraw his request. “The tent…it was the camping trip from hell. We were on the run, with only what Hermione had packed into her beaded purse. Which was a lot,” he added, looking at Tom with a note of remembered amusement in his eyes. “Honestly, that girl…woman, now, has always been ahead of the curve, but the fact that she’d mastered space-expansion magic by seventeen…” he trailed off, shaking his head. Tom had to admit that he was marginally impressed too – spacial magic wasn’t the easiest of things to master, requiring a finesse with magic and a twist of the mind that few could do, and especially not at seventeen with the first magical maturation causing the core to be a bit unstable.

“Anyway, there we were with enough to keep us going, but not enough to keep us _happy_. And we were searching for your horcruxes, of course, feeling our hopes get lower and lower every time we followed a lead to a dead end. It didn’t help when we found your locket horcrux – although we were happy at first to at least have _found_ one, it wasn’t like it helped the atmosphere or our relationships with each other.” He chuckled, but the sound was humourless. “Ron ditched us for a while – couldn’t take it any longer. He came back, but that was after the Malfoy Manor debacle. Although, that did gain us a lead on your cup horcrux so it wasn’t a complete disaster.” Harry sighed again.

“Honestly, it was just a period of time when we were almost always hungry, because we had barely any muggle money with us, and couldn’t go and get more when your Death Eaters were patrolling Diagon Alley. Which was also the reason why we couldn’t use our galleons. It was usually cold because our magic went to sustaining the wards, or saving it for the next day’s searching. We kept hearing news on the wireless of your forces gaining more and more ground, the general population just buckling under your rule instead of standing up for themselves. Waiting for a saviour to save them.” He barked another humourless laugh. “And the saviour was hiding out in a tent in the middle of nowhere wondering why, if it was his destiny to save the world, it seemed like it was impossible to do so.” He fell silent, his plate lying forgotten in his lap as he fell into memories.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said softly into the silence. Harry looked at him, and his gaze wasn’t angry or resentful as Tom would have expected. Would have welcomed, in fact, if taking his anger out on Tom helped Harry overcome the memories of the past. Instead, it was just tired. Tired and a little sad.

“I know,” he said heavily. The truth lay like a weight between them, that Tom could be as remorseful as he liked, but he couldn’t change a single second of it. Not sure how to break the silence, or whether he should, Tom just waited. Eventually, Harry reached a hand out and Tom slipped off the couch to kneel at his feet. The hand started carding through his hair, pulling his head to rest on the edge of the couch. “I know,” he repeated, slightly lighter than before. “But didn’t you say once that your past had made you who you were? Well, I’m not completely displeased with who I am now so… And it wasn’t all bad,” he continued. Tom kept his eyes on his master’s face as a small smile played around the corner of his lips. “Did you know that Ron and Hermione were my first lovers?”

“You had sex with Granger and Weasley?” Tom asked, surprised. He ran through the interactions between Granger and Harry in the past. No, he still couldn’t see it. Harry nodded.

“Yes. It wasn’t…it wasn’t because we loved each other. Not like _that_ anyway. Well, Hermione and Ron did, but not me.” He paused, clearly thinking how to explain it. “It was life-affirming,” he said finally. “We were in this situation where we were often hungry, cold, tired…we feared for our lives whenever we left the warded area of the tent, but we had to do that or we would never get _anywhere_. Beating off was the only pleasure we could have even when we didn’t have any food, even when our spirits were so low we were considering giving up.

“It was only natural when Ron and Hermione progressed their relationship to having sex. But being in a tent, there wasn’t much privacy, you know? I’d go for a walk or put up a silencing charm, but when there was snow on the ground and I didn’t want to leave the warded area, or when we got to the point of needing to preserve as much magic as possible…it wasn’t pleasant. In the end, they invited me to join them, because we were all friends, and we all loved each other, even if I’ve never felt anything romantically for either Ron or Hermione.

“After that first time, we’d get together relatively often, especially when we’d had a hard day or the food was low – it helped keep our spirits up.” He paused for a moment, thinking of those desperate times, and the small amount of pleasure they’d found. “We haven’t done anything like that since the war ended,” he said, turning his head to look at Tom. “They haven’t invited me, and I haven’t asked – I didn’t want to. I especially don’t now. It was something to hold onto in desperate times and now…now they’re able to have the relationship they wanted, and we’re friends; nothing more.” There was silence for a few moments as Tom digested that, looking down at the floor while he processed the new information, slotted it into his understandings of his master, Granger and Weasley.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said finally, looking back up at Harry and frowning at a lock of hair that fell into his face.

“You’re not…jealous?” Harry asked, stroking the hair out of his eyes so they could meet gazes with nothing in between. Tom paused. Was he? He felt like he should be, but…

“It’s not going to happen now,” he said slowly, testing the idea out. Harry shook his head. “Then no,” he continued. “How could I be jealous that you had _something_ good in that time I condemned you to?” A little more thought and he continued. “I think that if it continued, yes, I would feel jealous. But I would try to fight it – we have made no promises of monogamy. As the slave, I know I would be expected to be faithful to my master, unless ordered to…service someone else. As the master, you are held to no such standards.” He swallowed, his eyes flicking away before he forced them back to his master. “I would try to accept it if you brought someone else home,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “but I don’t know how well I would succeed. I…I feel dreadfully possessive of you, master, and I can’t help but hate the idea of someone else in your bed now that I’m finally there,” he admitted. There was a beat of silence and then Harry’s hand cupped his jaw, Harry leaning forward – almost into his treacle tart, but he moved it to the side just in time – and staring directly into Tom’s eyes.

“I should have thought of it,” he started, a note of self-recrimination in his voice, “but I didn’t, because it honestly didn’t occur. I thought that monogamy was implicit in our agreement. I will _never_ ask you to…to _service_ anyone,” he said with a revolted look on his face. “And I have no intention of taking anyone else into my house or my heart. Not now, not ever while we are together.” Tom couldn’t help the leap of joy that his heart made from showing on his face.

“You mean it, master?” he breathed out, daring to _hope._ Harry nodded firmly.

“Do you want me to add it to the list of rules?” he asked, flicking his wand into his hand as if to summon the scrolls now. Tom hurriedly shook his head.

“Now it’s clear, I doubt either of us will need reminding,” he remarked. Harry gave him a quick smile.

“No, I suppose not,” he agreed, leaning back and releasing Tom’s chin. Picking up the plate of treacle tart and custard, he continued munching. “Although, I do have a question. Earlier, you asked for permission to come. Why?” Tom froze, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks.

“Oh. That,” he replied eloquently. Harry just looked at him patiently, eating his way bite by bite through the tart Tom had made for him. In the end, Tom just shrugged helplessly.

“It felt right?” he said, almost as a question, his tone rising at the end. Harry nodded slowly.

“Is that something you’d like to try, me being in control of your orgasms?” he asked neutrally, no hint of his preference either way. Tom wished he would give some indication – it would be so much easier to answer if he knew what his master _wanted_.

“Maybe,” he admitted, thinking it over. Harry nodded again.

“How many times have you masturbated this week? I teased you a fair bit before today.” Tom knew the slight blush in his cheeks was intensifying and he couldn’t hold Harry’s gaze as he mumbled his answer. “What was that? You’ll have to speak louder,” Harry asked, his voice holding a damnable hint of amusement at Tom’s expense.

“None,” Tom repeated louder, looking up and meeting Harry’s eyes with a defiant look, daring Harry to laugh. He didn’t. Instead, his eyebrows rose and his eyes widened in surprise.

“Seriously, you haven’t wanked since we made our agreement?” he asked, a note of incredulity in his voice. Tom shook his head wordlessly. “Alright,” Harry continued, acceptance filtering into his tone. “Why? Because you thought I would like it? Because you thought I _wouldn’t_ like it if you came without permission? Because you wanted to prolong the arousal? Why?” Tom shrugged.

“I suppose more the first two reasons,” he said after a few moments of thought. “I tried, but it just didn’t feel right. Not since I’d decided to dedicate to you.” He shrugged again. “I guess that answers your question.”

“Meaning?” Harry asked leadingly.

“Meaning that yes, I want you to…to control my orgasms,” Tom said, stumbling a little over the words and unable to hold Harry’s gaze.

“Alright,” Harry said thoughtfully and Tom looked back up to see a considering expression on his face. “In which case, you need to ask for permission to come when we’re having sex together. If you want to masturbate, you need to ask me first. If you break one of these rules, I will punish you. If you break one of them without me knowing, like with the other rules, I expect you to come and tell me and accept your punishment. OK?” he asked.

“Yes, master,” Tom agreed, the same sensation gripping him as had happened a week ago when they had discussed the rules he would live by – the sense of constriction that was paradoxically freeing.

This time, Harry _did_ summon the scrolls of parchment with Tom’s code of conduct on it, handing them to Tom so he could add the new rule on both copies. He only realised that Harry had also been writing when his master showed him rule four, a paraphrasing of his words earlier about monogamy. Although Tom honestly hadn’t _needed_ it written down, he couldn’t help but be grateful for it – although he knew that his master could tear up the sheet of parchment at a moment’s notice (apart from the bit about the safe-word since they were both bound by magic to keep to that), he trusted that Harry wouldn’t change it without a good reason at least. Warmth filling him, he smiled up at his master and leant against his leg, curling his arm around it, needing the contact to prove to him that this was real.

Harry just chuckled and finished his treacle tart, his free hand carding through Tom’s hair and massaging his scalp.

XXX

Hermione was the first to floo in for the campaign group meeting a few days later, with Neville following not long afterwards. Harry spent a bit of time chatting about the progress of non-slave related regulations with Hermione, as the slave related information would come up in the meeting, and then couldn’t help but moan with Neville a bit about the NEWTs. Neville had taken Defence, Herbology (of course), Care of Magical Creatures, and Charms. There was no surprise that he had avoided Potions like the plague, and he had decided that Transfiguration wasn’t for him either. Harry had asked him at one point why he had chosen CoMC when he wanted to be an Auror and Neville had shrugged and then answered fairly simply that as an Auror, it wasn’t unlikely that they would come across criminals dealing in either magical creatures or magical plants; having a knowledge that was more than conversant in both areas would allow him to specialise later. Harry supposed that it was a fair point and had wished him well.

“What did you think of question twenty-four on the charms, though?” Harry asked with a look of mock-horror. Neville laughed.

“I thought anything about fire was likely to be right down Seamus’ street,” he countered and both Hermione and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle in agreement. “But Merlin,” Neville continued, rubbing at his forehead, “I’ll almost be afraid to open the envelope when it came. How long after your exams did you receive your results, Hermione?” he asked, looking towards her. She got a thoughtful look on her face.

“Three weeks, I believe. But I think Hogwarts’ results come out mid-July, normally. It’s to do with the sheer volume of exams they have to mark and their desire to get them all out at the same time.” Harry nodded slowly.

“And this time there will be even more – not just the normal Seventh years, but many of our year and Ginny’s year as well,” he mentioned, surprised to realise that mentioning Ginny didn’t send pangs of regret through him like it used to. They continued chatting for a while until the rest of the group flooed in, as usual arriving one after another and making the room feel very small. Tom got their drinks orders at the door and then met them in the drawing room upstairs as normal.

What wasn’t normal, however, was that he came to half-kneel, half-sit at Harry’s feet instead of using the chair that was open for him as usual. Harry stared at him for a moment, surprised. Tom just met his eyes, a warm note in them, and shrugged almost imperceptibly. Alright then – clearly he wanted to be a slave in front of Harry’s friends as well. Harry wasn’t going to force him to sit in a chair if he didn’t want to – he couldn’t deny that Tom being comfortable enough to show submission to him in front of others sent a frisson of warmth through him.

As for the others, the unusual sight attracted a few uncertain looks, none more suspicious than Hermione’s, but no one said anything. Harry didn’t know what was going through their heads, but suspected he’d be hearing from his best friend at some point. Heaving a fond mental sigh, he reflected that, as irritating as it was to be questioned at every turn, he wouldn’t actually change one jot of Hermione’s concern – that she felt compassion and empathy for the down-trodden (or even just _seemingly_ downtrodden) was the whole reason this campaign group had ever started.

“Alright everyone,” Harry said, not needing to raise his voice to get everyone’s attention. “Welcome back: it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he asked semi-rhetorically; a murmur of agreement rose nonetheless. “First, let me say congratulations to you all for getting the legislation passed, despite my…unfortunate accident.” He smiled at them and everyone either smiled back or nodded at him.

“That Duval being fingered for attacking you certainly helped us,” Seamus said grimly. “Even if technically the legislation had already passed the vote, it avoided there being an appeal.”

“That’s actually something that confused me,” Blaise murmured, a frown on his face. “Why did they attack?” Several people stared at him.

“Um, because Harry was opposing them?” offered Susan, her tone a mixture between ‘isn’t that obvious’ and ‘why are you asking’. At Harry’s feet, Tom frowned.

“Mr Zabini has a point,” he remarked, his smooth voice cutting through the muttering which had started. All eyes turned to him, though Padma’s glanced to Harry with confusion in them, as if wondering whether Tom was _allowed_ to speak, since he was clearly having to kneel at Harry’s feet.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, pointedly making it obvious to everyone other than Tom that he was more than welcome to offer his input. Tom didn’t need reminding.

“Why would our opponents have made such an obvious and violent attack, which could be linked back to them, when they were already making inroads on destroying the credibility of the legislation through the media because of…because of my actions.” He cast his eyes downwards on the last few words, but Harry just put his hand on his shoulder and stroked his neck with his thumb.

“Maybe they were worried that Harry would manage to change their minds with the press conference?” Padma offered. Surprisingly, or maybe not, it was Neville who answered.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ve got good points. This doesn’t fit the group’s usual tactics at all. So far, it’s been all background work. Rumours. Stories in the press. Mutters in the corridors. Subtle things. This, an explosion at the end of a press conference with the Man-who-Conquered which was being broadcasted on the wireless at the time was something completely different.”

“So what do you think?” asked Dean, his brow furrowed. “You think Duval was _framed_ or something?” There was a moment of silence as they contemplated that.

“Perhaps,” Blaise responded thoughtfully. “But whoever did it would have to be fairly high up, to be able to contaminate the evidence of such a high-profile case without anyone else being alerted. And they’d have to know what the Aurors would be looking for, what to contaminate….” Suddenly, Harry realised with a sensation of a sudden adrenaline rush, that there was one person who might have the authority, the knowledge, and perhaps even the motive. If he was right, then the person might have seen the efforts towards improve the lot of the slaves failing, and have felt guilt because he was the one had allowed the slaves to be exposed to such abuse in the first time. His eyes wide, pieces started falling into place. Maybe that person would have wanted to distance himself from the event, disguise his motivation by seeming to be neutral on the cause. Maybe his desire to be neutral had caused him to make an unwise decision on the placement of a certain slave….

Shaken by the implications, he decided that this wasn’t the time to air them – he’d need to get a bit more evidence in support first. Instead, he turned back to the group and let a quiet bang emerge from his wand. All eyes on him, he started to speak.

“Thank you for raising that as a possibility, Blaise. I suggest we all think about this, but be careful of making any mention of it without evidence – first of all, at the moment it’s just a theory. Second, if it _isn’t_ just a theory, speaking about it may put everyone here at risk.” He looked at their faces and saw the grim understanding – having lived through the war, all here knew the danger of loose lips.

About to continue speaking, Harry paused and a frown creased his brow as the wards registered a new person floo in. Who could that be? He hadn’t given his floo password to many, and everyone who was normal here was already present… Looking down at Tom, he saw that his slave had received the same message – his new connection with the wards allowing him almost the same level of information as Harry received.

“Shall I go and see who it is, master?” offered Tom quietly. Harry nodded.

“Please,” he replied, just as softly. A moment later the red-eyed man stood up gracefully, and with a momentary bow of his head towards the group, he disappeared out of the room. Harry found himself watching his slave go, but quickly reminded himself that he was supposed to be leading the group. Turning back, he cleared his throat and continued, all eyes returning to him.

“Now, we need to think about the next steps our campaign is going to take. But first, Hermione, how is implementing the new regulation coming on?”

XXX

Tom strode down the stairs and into the sitting room to greet the unexpected addition. Seeing who it was, he couldn’t help but freeze for a moment, the memory of the last time he had seen this particular person going through his mind. Not to mention the events which had followed that memory. A beat later, he was able to make himself move and, gritting his teeth, he forced his head to bow respectfully and an only-slightly begrudging, ‘Mr Malfoy’, to come from his mouth.

Draco, because honestly, for all that Tom might have to treat him respectfully as a freeman now, could never be anyone but ‘Draco’ in his mind, seemed just as shocked, staring at him as if he hadn’t expected to see Tom either. Which, really, where _else_ would Tom be but in his master’s house?

“Um,” Draco started coherently before clearing his throat and trying again. “H-Harry said I could come and join the campaign group?” he said, something that should have been a statement coming out as a question because of his apparent nerves.

“They’re upstairs,” Tom replied neutrally, locking up his various emotions with his Occlumency – he’d deal with them once he was back at his master’s feet where he felt safe, comfortable. “I believe you know the way. Would you like a drink, Mr Malfoy,” he asked flatly, his second utterance of that name easier than the first. It was an odd thing to get hung up over, he mused to himself – it wasn’t as though he had any desire to be called ‘Mr Riddle’ again. Nor did he want to be free, which was what it symbolised. No, he supposed that it was just that Draco had been at the same level as him for a while, and so now…now it was what Tom had once feared would happen – that Draco would be free, and Tom still a slave, obliged to treat him respectfully, regardless of what they had shared. Still, he thought with a little satisfaction that served to cheer himself up – he didn’t have to worry about Draco usurping _his_ place in Harry’s bed anymore – _that_ had been proven very well over the last few days. The memory of waking up that morning to lazy Saturday sex had him feeling immediately better.

“You don’t…you don’t have to call me Mr Malfoy,” Draco offered hesitantly. “From you…from Harry, it feels…weird.” His attention drawn back out of those…delightful memories and into the present, Tom’s brows drew together a little and he flicked his eyes up to meet Draco’s anxious grey ones for the first time since the man had arrived.

“Then what would you like me to call you?” he asked politely, inwardly smirking slightly at Draco’s obvious discomfort. Now that he was feeling a bit more comfortable, he was able to appreciate how the situation was decidedly _not_ for the other man.

“Just call me Draco, as usual,” the man offered tentatively. Tom leaned slightly against the doorframe and crossed his arms.

“Calling one of my master’s guests by his first name doesn’t seem a very respectful thing to do,” he pointed out idly.

“For Merlin’s sake, Tom,” Draco burst out, his hesitancy swept away by his frustration. “I thought we’d be past all that sort of nonsense! I’m not expecting you to behave like the perfect slave with me, and I know Harry wouldn’t mind!” he exclaimed. Then, seeing the slight smirk touching the corner of Tom’s mouth, he rolled his eyes and huffed in annoyance. “Bastard,” he muttered. “Just call me Draco as you’ve always done.”

“As you wish, _Draco_ ,” Tom replied slightly mockingly. “But haven’t I been useful in helping you past all those nerves you arrived with?” he pointed out innocently. Draco glared at him, and then it softened slightly.

“I suppose,” he admitted. “Though I can’t help but think that that was more of a happy by-product, rather than your principal motivation,” he pointed out. Tom just shrugged, the smirk on his face widening.

“What would you like to drink?” Tom offered again, more normally this time now that their dynamics had mostly resettled into almost what they had been before. Draco considered the question for a moment.

“Tea, please. Earl grey. Black with three spoons of sugar.”

“Three?” remarked Tom with his eyebrow raised. Draco just stared at him as if daring him to question it. The red-eyed man just shrugged. “Your funeral, I suppose,” he muttered dubiously and then turned to go to the kitchen. He realised Draco was following instead of heading upstairs when he heard two sets of footsteps on the kitchen stairs. Ignoring the other man for a moment, he flicked his wand to set some more water to boil and get the necessary tea bag and sugar out of the cupboards. Then, leaning against the counter, he looked back at Draco and lifted his eyebrow.

“I haven’t seen you since the Minister’s office,” Draco said defensively, as if feeling like Tom’s look was an accusation. “I was wondering how you’re doing.” Hmm, interesting.

“And you wanted to ask me without Master present,” Tom guessed. When Draco looked away briefly, Tom didn’t need Legilimency to see that he’d hit the nail on the head. Turning his head to stare at the water which was beginning to boil, he shrugged and looked back to meet Draco’s eyes. “It’s good,” he said simply. “Not all that dissimilar from what it was like when you were here, but…better. Harry and I…we’ve come to certain understandings which…well. It’s good.” He shrugged again, not really knowing how to explain without going into far too much detail. Those grey eyes observed him, seeing perhaps more than Tom was comfortable with.

“You seem…content,” Draco observed. He bit his lip for a moment and then continued. “When I was here you always seemed to have an…uneasy edge about you. A conflict about something. And then after you had that problem in Diagon Alley, you were all over the place. Now…you seem calm. Settled.” Huh, was he really that easy to read? Maybe only to Draco who, after all, had been both a Slytherin and a slave, and who had seen so much of his and Harry’s day-to-day relationship; who had been there when he’d discovered that his collar was unbreakable. Merlin, that seemed so long ago now, but in honesty, it had only been about a month and a half since his realisation.

“I am,” he replied simply, starting to pour the tea. Draco’s next question made his hand shake as he tipped the kettle, but he managed not to spill any water.

“Do you not long to be free?” he asked, in tones of disbelief. Tom set the kettle down and stirred in three spoonfuls of sugar before turning and answering.

“No,” he said, leaving no doubt in his voice about that. Handing the tea over, he saw an expression pass over Draco’s face that left his teeth on edge. “Don’t pity me,” he said sharply and the younger man immediately blanked his expression, no doubt using his own Occlumency shields. “I have made my choice and I am content with it,” he told the grey-eyed man firmly, using full eye-contact to emphasise his point “I have not just passively ‘come to terms’ with my situation: I have actively decided to engage in it.”

“Of course,” Draco replied, and with his Occlumency up, and Tom not using a jot of Legilimency, he couldn’t tell whether the other man genuinely agreed, or was just politely doing so. Frankly, Tom suspected the latter more than the former, but he couldn’t be bothered to try to convince Draco any more – the person who needed convincing was his master, and he had – fortunately – finally been convinced.

“Shall we go upstairs?” Tom asked politely, gesturing towards the door. Draco nodded silently and turned to walk up the stairs and out of the kitchen. Going up the stairs in silence, they heard Granger’s strident tones speaking passionately about the measures she’d been putting in place to enforce the new legislation. When Draco took a few steps into the room, some hesitation creeping back into his movements, the room went quiet.

“Draco!” Tom’s master exclaimed in slight surprise. Tom watched as a smile broke across his face at the other man’s entry, but he didn’t feel any jealousy. He didn’t need to: there was something missing in Harry’s expression which Tom only ever saw when he was looking at his slave, when he was looking at _Tom_. And the lack of it when looking at his former slave soothed a part inside Tom which he had thought had already been eliminated. Moving past Draco who was still shifting slightly from foot to foot in nervousness, the hands which he had clasped behind his back shaking, Tom took his place at his master’s feet once more.

“I…you said I could come, if I wanted to help,” Draco said nervously, his eyes flicking everywhere but straight at Harry. “I want to help,” he finished, a little more determination in his voice.

“Then we’re glad to have you,” Harry replied, his voice warm. “Right, guys?” he asked, glancing around the rest of the table. “And ladies,” he hastily added. There was a chorus of shrugs and murmured agreements. Tom did notice Zabini’s expression was a strange combination of satisfied and relieved, though. “I’ll conjure you a chair,” Tom’s master offered, taking his wand out.

“Master,” Tom spoke up, gaining Harry’s attention instantly. “He can have my chair,” he suggested, tilting his head to the empty one he’d chosen not to use. Harry’s eyes were warm as he met Tom’s gaze.

“I appreciate the offer,” he replied quietly, his voice as warm as his eyes, “but whether or not you choose to use it, you’ll always have a seat at this table.” Tom smiled back at him, suspecting he looked like a love-besotted fool, but not caring a whit. An annoyed sigh broke the moment and Tom looked back toward Draco to see him rolling his eyes again.

“This is easy enough to solve,” he said, once more his annoyance seeming to push away his hesitancy. Withdrawing his own wand, he conjured a chair and put it in an open space at the other end of the table. Walking over to it, he sat down almost defiantly. “There, sorted,” he announced, his tone the equivalent of throwing up his hands in exasperation. Then, a moment later, when his mind caught up with his actions, he paled slightly and suddenly found the table a fascinating object to stare at as everyone else stared at _him_. Yep, Tom decided with a bit of a smirk, Draco would be _just fine_.

XXX

Harry was pleased with their productivity so far. They’d discussed what had already happened, and they had decided – with a fair bit of heated debate – what should happen next. Harry had been glad to realise that kneeling at his feet didn’t mean that Tom was any less engaged in the conversation. He was also very happy to see that as time wore on, Draco lost the nerves he had entered the room with, and he was starting to see aspects of the old Draco coming through – the fiery opponent who had driven him so mad with anger so many times. Of course, he was also very glad to see that that passion was being directed to a more useful purpose – helping those who, like himself, had drawn the short straw in the lottery of the auction.

He and Tom had actually had a couple of almost arguments, the rest of them watching on as the former and current slave seemed to firmly disagree on several issues. The current one was how to ensure that slaves were not being sexually abused. Although, Harry supposed he should have expected that – Tom wouldn’t want to put anything in place that would prevent him and Harry from continuing what they had just started. Still, he couldn’t help but think that it was fallacious to avoid regulations simply because of the reality of their relationship – they might be engaging, for example, in a sexual relationship which both of them wanted, but how many other master-slave pairs would be likely to have the same kind of arrangement? Few, if any. And they were the ones in need of protection.

He decided he’d better speak to Tom afterwards about it, although figured that actually, the chances of them being able to put legislation in place which would be able to control something which had always been seen as an inalienable right of a master over a slave was…slim. Much as Harry hated it, he knew they had to be realistic – prevent the worst abuse from happening and then put things in place to pick up the pieces: trying to control every aspect of the punishment would be futile as the masters would just not comply. In fact, it would be better in that case to just ‘buy’ all the slaves back and put them in prison. Actually… Harry put the thought on the back-burner for later consideration.

Seeing that the current argument was devolving more into an insult-slinging match – and while Harry was glad that Tom and Draco still felt comfortable enough with each other to do that, it really _wasn’t_ the reason for them all being here – Harry decided to step in.

“Enough,” he said, not loudly, but very firmly. Both of them immediately shut up, two sets of eyes snapping to look at him with trepidation. Well, more than two pairs of eyes as the rest of the campaign group had also turned to look at him with expressions ranging between exasperation to amusement to disappointment that he’d interrupted their fun. “We can discuss this later once everyone has had a chance to think about the issues that have been presented,” he told them both firmly. Draco looked down, his body language expressing submission, something Harry felt mixed about – he was glad that Draco wasn’t arguing with him, yes, but he also regretted sending the man back into his submissive shell when he’d come so far out of it during the session.

Tom, however, turned his head to look at Harry, his red-eyes still flashing with unspoken passion. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but Harry just _looked_ at him and he immediately shut it with a click and looked down at the ground. Not wanting Tom to think that he was _angry_ with him – he wasn’t: he just felt that the argument wasn’t a useful use of their time – he reached down to card his hand through Tom’s hair. Under his touch he felt his slave’s neck muscles relax and he gently pulled his head to rest on his thigh. Tom let out a soft sigh that Harry felt against his leg as a sudden patch of warmth more than heard. Feeling warmth bubble up inside him at his slave’s easy relaxation into him, Harry looked up to see everyone staring at him. Everyone except for Draco who seemed rather confused at why everyone else was staring.

“Um, Harry?” Dean started, not seeming to know how to continue, but his gaze flicking between Harry’s eyes and the hand which was still carding gently through Tom’s hair, his head now completely resting on Harry’s leg. Harry just followed his gaze feeling baffled.

“What?”

“I think he’s trying to say that it’s kind of…unusual, you stroking Tom like he’s a pet or something,” Susan interjected with her normal tact. Oh. Harry supposed, looking at it _that_ way, that it would be a bit strange. He just shrugged.

“I like doing it, and he likes me doing it,” he explained simply.

“It’s not unusual either.” Support came from the strangest place. Quailing a little as everyone turned to look at him, Draco soon rallied and spoke again, almost defiantly. “They do it all the time. Just because they haven’t done it in front of _you_ doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen most evenings.”

“Is that true?” Padma asked, a slight note of amusement in her voice. Harry supposed that it could be amusing, the image of the former dark lord enjoying having his hair caressed like a cat, but he just felt warm inside that Tom trusted him enough to let him do something in public (or semi-public) which had heretofore only been done in private. To answer Padma, though, he just shrugged, not seeing the need to explain.

“Moving on,” he said, seeing a couple of expressions of disappointment that he was apparently not going to be satisfying their curiosity anytime soon, “I was thinking about something to put in place for _after_ the slaves are set free. As we know, they’re likely to be coming out with at least some level of trauma, and potentially nothing to their names. Now, I’ve put in place a loan scheme system to enable former slaves to get back on their feet and pursue further education in the hopes of improving job prospects.” He didn’t look at Draco, but saw the man moving slightly in his peripheral vision – the grey-eyed former slave had signed the loan contract a few days after the meeting in Gringotts. “However, I’d like to go a step further. What do you think of the idea of creating a sort of halfway house? Somewhere for those who have been newly released to live for a while, perhaps get treatment for either physical or mental trauma, and start their lives anew?” There were lots of speculative looks passed around the table.

“Would this be something you offer, or something offered by the charity?” Hermione asked first. Harry thought about it.

“The charity, I guess,” he replied slowly. “I wouldn’t want the newly-released slaves to feel like they were just going from one master to another.

“On that note,” interjected Seamus, surprisingly seriously for him. "Would it be obligatory for the newly freed slaves to go to the halfway house?” Harry immediately shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said firmly. “Like I said, I wouldn’t want them to feel like they were going from one master to another. Just like the loans I’m offering, they would have to choose to take part in the programme.” A few more questions were voiced: whether St Mungo’s should be involved, which actually created a short debate on whether that would be a good idea or not – some being firmly of the mind that it should be kept as far away from the hospital and its regulations as possible, and others arguing that for access to the kind of treatment the newly-released slaves would need, _some_ sort of connection would be obligatory; more practical questions of whether a new building would need to be bought or created, and whether the Ministry would have to give permission; even a few jokes about Death Eater re-education, which were firmly shot down. Finally though, one question was raised which had a rather interesting reaction.

“Would you run it?” Susan asked, a piercing look in her eyes. “Would you choose to do that over being an Auror – I doubt you’d have time for both.” Harry paused at that – honestly, he hadn’t really thought that far.

“I mean,” he started slowly, “I guess I would if there wasn’t any other choice, but…I’m not sure I’d be the best person.”

“Why doesn’t Tom do it?” Draco asked unexpectedly, the first contribution he’d made to the topic so far. Everyone looked at him and his eyes wavered towards the table as a slight hint of pink touched his cheeks. A moment later, he looked back up, his expression stubbornly determined. Harry couldn’t help but smile – Draco really was a success story, he couldn’t help but think. If half the former slaves were able to get through their experiences and come out the other side like he had, it would be a miracle.

“Me?” Tom asked incredulously, drawing Harry’s attention back to the suggestion Draco had made. Harry withdrew his hand from where it had continued to stroke through Tom’s hair, not wanting to distract him. “Why me?” Harry had a good idea of what was going through Tom’s head – probably thoughts about how his previous occupation of Dark Lord had made him particularly unsuited to caring for traumatised former slaves. And he could understand that perspective, as well as the disbelieving looks being shot at both Tom and Draco by at least half of the participants of the meeting. Not Blaise, Harry noted with interest. And Hermione looked more thoughtful than incredulous too.

“Well, you’ve already done it, for one thing,” Draco pointed out.

“That was hardly the same sort of thing,” Tom snapped back.

“Why not?” challenged Draco. “Between you and Harry, you got me from the…the shell I was when I first arrived to someone who could actually deal with being free.” He pinked at his own words and Harry noticed he wasn’t looking anywhere but directly at Tom, as if trying to block out everyone around. “You’re a slave – you understand where they’ll be coming from. You can help anyone who has a similar problem to mine. Merlin, for many of them, you’ll have automatic authority because of once being their leader.”

“You’ve defeated yourself with your own arguments,” Tom countered. “Yes, I’m a slave, which means I’ll have _no_ sort of authority over them, unlike with you. How likely is it that they’re going to have the same problem as you, really? And even so, do you realise how _lucky_ you were to actually come out of it, and with no obvious brain damage, to boot?” he demanded, staring Draco down. Harry just leant back in his chair and watched them duke it out. Honestly, he actually agreed with Draco – he thought this had the potential to be very good for both the newly-released slaves _and_ Tom. But Tom had to _want_ to do it. “As to your suggestion that my having been Voldemort would _help_ in any sort of way is ridiculous enough to be laughable! Given that I am the entire reason for them being in that position in the _first_ place, I hardly think that they would appreciate me trying to help them deal with the consequences! Let’s face it, it wasn’t me having once been your _lord_ that helped you, was it?”

“I think you would understand a lot more than most, for multiple reasons,” Draco returned. “The proof is in the potion – you helped me a lot. Harry too, but you in particular. I think you could do the same for a lot of others too. And I think it would help _you_ too. I mean, what are you planning on doing with your life, for Merlin’s sake?” he questioned pointedly. “Cooking and cleaning? How is _that_ going to keep you interested? Besides, it might help a bit with that guilt complex you’ve got going on there.” Harry saw the words hit Tom like blows, his eyes going wide and decided it was time to step in.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said firmly, once again drawing an end to their debate. Placing a hand on Tom’s neck to help ground him, the tension under his touch easing slightly at the contact, he turned to Draco. “Thanks for the suggestion, Draco,” he said calmly. “We’ll discuss it and if Tom says no, we’ll find someone else.”

“But-“ Draco started, clearly wanting to continue the argument. Harry just held up a hand and shook his head.

“No,” he responded, the firm note still in his voice. “Tom has to choose his path, just as you chose yours. You wouldn’t have wanted me forcing you to do the Potions Mastery if you hadn’t actually wanted it, would you?” he asked raising his eyebrows pointedly. Draco looked away and crossed his arms.

“No,” he muttered sulkily.

“So it’s the same thing here. Alright, anything more to add?” he asked, directing the question at the others who had been watching in curiosity.

The meeting wrapped up fairly shortly after that, no one having much more to raise for discussion. Hermione hung around in the drawing room, obviously wanting to talk, so Harry asked Tom to escort their other guests to the floo, and stuck around. Hermione didn’t take long in getting to the point, quickly casting a _muffliato_. Harry raised his eyebrows at that, wondering if she was about to shout at him or something.

“What’s happened to Tom?” asked Hermione bluntly. “I’m trying not to jump to conclusions, but it’s hard to not do that when a few weeks ago he was able to sit in a chair with all of us, and now he’s kneeling by your feet and getting stroked like a pet.” Harry sighed. He had known this was coming.

“As Draco pointed out, kneeling by my feet and having his hair stroked is nothing strange. He’s been doing it for…” he trailed off, trying to work out how much time, but couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had become common. The first time had definitely been in October, but it hadn’t become frequent until later… “I don’t remember when, but months, definitely. The only difference is that he chose to do it in front of all of you.”

“Which is surprising in its own right,” Hermione pointed out. “When compared to what he was like that first time Ron and I saw him as a slave, when you ordered him to kneel and he defied it until the pain got too much for him to bear, the fact that he knelt now without even an order?” She looked at him suspiciously. “You _didn’t_ order him, did you?”

“No,” Harry told her.

“Well then,” Hermione stated. “What has happened to turn him from that into _this_?” Harry sighed and leant against the back of the chair he’d been sitting in earlier, crossing his arms loosely.

“Let’s just say that the last few weeks in particular have been…a series of revelations. For both of us. We’re still finding a way through them, but…there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Hope that one day we’ll find our niche.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything, Harry Potter,” Hermione snapped in frustration.

“And I don’t want to break his confidence by giving you any more details!” Harry snapped back, glaring at her a little. “Look, if you want to speak to him on his own, that’s fine – I’ll make sure he knows that I won’t ask him anything about the conversation and that he’s free to say whatever. But I’m not going to let you into the intimate details of his psyche without his agreement.” Hermione eyed him for a moment and then, unexpectedly, a small chuckle burst out from between her lips. “What?” asked Harry, now completely baffled at the sudden change of emotion. His friend shrugged.

“It’s just…I suppose if you’re still so concerned about his privacy, you’re unlikely to have done something to him to make him like this,” she remarked. Harry just shrugged jerkily, a bit insulted beside himself at her suspicion, but grateful nonetheless at the fact that he had a friend who would call him out when she thought he was doing something wrong.

“He’s come to accept his slavery in ways I cannot understand, but that doesn’t make them any less valid,” he confided quietly. “Believe me, I’ve questioned them, and myself so many times over the past few weeks and I think, I hope, that I’m doing the right thing here.” She hummed for a moment, observing him carefully.

“I believe you’ll always try to do the right thing, Harry,” she said finally, fondly. “That’s just who you are.” Harry looked away, uncomfortable at the praise. “And that was what was worrying me – the way Tom’s behaving now…it doesn’t seem like who _he_ is.” Harry sighed.

“I know,” he admitted quietly. “And I’ve asked myself the same question over and over. I’ve asked _him_ the question multiple times too. The conclusion I’ve come to is this: Tom Riddle has never done things by halves – whatever he’s set his mind to doing, he has done with his full focus and the dangerous combination of his intelligence, power, and will. Why would he do anything different with this? He’s come to the conclusion that he wishes to submit to me.” Harry shrugged almost helplessly as if to ask what he could do against that. Especially when he didn’t _want_ to do anything against it, but he didn’t tell Hermione that.

Fortunately, she seemed content enough with his explanation that time around and she walked over to give him a quick hug before leaving the room. Harry sighed and wiped a hand across his face before turning and waving his wand at the detritus littering the coffee table. In a few moments, the mugs were clean and levitating on a tray next to him, the notes were neatly arranged, the quills and ink were away with the spare parchment, and his drawing room finally looked tidy again.

“Master, I would have done that,” Tom’s voice said from the door with an almost scolding tone in it. Harry shrugged and gave him a half-smile.

“You can put the mugs away, then,” he offered. Tom nodded curtly and took over the levitation, walking down the stairs. Harry followed him in silence, his mind still on the conversation he’d had with Hermione, and the meeting before that.

“I think you’d be pretty good at it,” he said finally, just as they were walking down the kitchen steps. Tom hummed in question, turning his head slightly towards Harry, but not enough to make him trip down the final stairs. “Running the halfway-house, that is.” He hesitated for a moment and then moved towards his chair, sitting down at the table. “How do you feel about it?” he asked quietly. “Really.” Tom was silent for a few moments, flicking his wand so the mugs soared into the cupboard and rearranged themselves, and the tray also zoomed into its proper place.

“I don’t understand why anyone would think I would be a good fit for the position. I’m not kind, I’m not _safe_...especially not for a group of people who may have been directly tortured by me.” He shrugged. “It’s not like I have any sort of training for it anyway.”

“No one’s saying you’d have to do it alone,” Harry observed. “I wouldn’t expect _anyone_ to be able to run that place alone – that’s why we were debating about whether St Mungo’s should get involved, because they have access to the personnel who would be necessary. I’m just asking how you would feel to have managing it be your responsibility. Your project.” Tom hesitated for a few moments and then sighed, turning to come over to the table. Instead of sitting in his seat, he chose to once more kneel at Harry’s feet. Absently noting that the man was kneeling on hard tiles instead of the cushions that were pretty much permanently placed in Tom’s normal places in the sitting room, Harry sent a non-verbal cushioning charm. Tom sent him a grateful look, and then leant his head against Harry’s thigh. Automatically, Harry’s hand came down to stroke through his hair gently, massaging his scalp and the tense muscles of his neck.

“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted quietly after a long pause. “There’s a part of me that…that _does_ want to do it. Helping Draco out of the mess which I, in a large part at least, created was…it helped my guilt for putting him there in the first place. I didn’t get rid of it completely, because I know Draco will always be affected by the memory of his experiences, but…it helped. The idea that I could be a part of that healing process, instead of once again a destructive influence, is appealing.” OK, that sounded good… Of course, Tom then went on. “But I just don’t see how it would work. First, I’d be a slave in charge of freemen and freewomen. How is _that_ supposed to work? Second, as I said before – I am a good reason for why they ended up there: why would they be pleased to see me? Why would they _want_ my help? That former slave who spat at me in the street – he’s probably a better example of what their reactions would be like than Draco.” Harry nodded, although Tom couldn’t see it, and started to speak, seeing as Tom sounded like he was done.

“I understand your concerns,” he said, because he did. They were logical and reasonable. But that didn’t mean that they had to prevent Tom from doing something that Harry’s instinct told him he wanted. “First, the authority issue. It’s a good point, and we’d have to make sure that you were in a situation where you could exercise authority without risking problems with the Ministry. Off-hand, I suppose I could buy a house and basically ‘lend’ it to the charity for use, but maintain it as one of my holdings. That way, we could argue that it’s _my house_ and therefore my rules for you apply. I’m sure many people wouldn’t like it, but if it’s considered a private home, there’s not much anybody could do about it. If the former slaves don’t like it, they can leave the programme,” Harry decided. Tom twisted his head to look up at him, surprise on his features.

“That’s rather Slytherin, master,” he said with a hint of admiration in his voice. Harry shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Well the hat _did_ want to put me in Slytherin at first… Anyway, that’s beside the point.” He cleared his throat and continued. “As for the former slaves not wanting to see you…it’s possible. It’s also possible that seeing you and seeing how you’ve changed will give them more validation in their own changes; give them satisfaction that you didn’t get off scott-free. Plus, as Draco said, the fact that you’ve gone through similar experiences would enable you to help them in ways that even trained professionals might not be able to do, because they are working from a different position. Don’t forget as well that this isn’t an either or thing. You can decide to try it out, help for a while, and then if you really feel like your presence is having the opposite effect of what we want, we can find someone else to manage it.” Harry shrugged again. Tom was looking at him with a soft warm look in his eyes.

“Thank you, master,” he murmured.

“Not a problem,” Harry told him warmly. “Just have a think about it, and then come and tell me when you’ve decided what you want to do. I promise – there’s no right or wrong answer, just what you feel would suit you.”

“Alright,” Tom replied with a nod, before twisting his head back so he was leaning against Harry’s leg once more. “I will.”

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:
> 
> * So, this is a shout-out to the crossover fic VoidRealmer and I have been writing together (and the fact that their Tom absolutely hates pineapple on pizza ;) Also, apparently ‘pineapple’ is the most used safe-word apart from ‘red’… Go figure.


	14. Part 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some threads are tied up, but more are created.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I feel like I should apologise - it's been a bit longer than intended. In my defence, I've been busy...and reading a really good fanfic which VoidRealmer recommended to me, so blame them ;) Still, here it is. Hopefully the next chapter (and last!) chapter will be up within the next couple of weeks, but no promises. 
> 
> Also, VoidRealmer...I feel I should have a disclaimer here - I can't do crack! So a scene is in here which should really have been crack (and would have been if you'd written it), but when I write it it gets angsty undertones so... Hope you enjoy it nonetheless. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: some explicit content which contains kind of dubious consent. If you are worried about that, please check the foot note for more details. Also, a scene which should probably be considered food porn, although all clothes stay on ;). 
> 
> So, with no further ado, enjoy!

Harry stood to one side of the stage, trying his best to keep his nerves under control, clutching the graduation scroll he had just received along with the rest of those graduating. They had walked across the stage one by one to applause after having their names called, shaking the hands of first the Headmistress, and then the Minister for Magic, before stepping off the stage and returning to their seats. At least, almost everyone had returned to their seats. Harry looked sideways at the other people standing with him: Natalie McDonald and Richard Green.

Natalie was a fellow Gryffindor, and had been chosen as the representative of the year that was actually meant to be graduating, unlike the years Harry and Green were representing. Harry didn’t know much about Green – only that he was a Ravenclaw in the year below. Neither of them were looking particularly comfortable or that they were anticipating the coming minutes with any sort of excitement: Natalie was shaking a little and pale, and Green, while maintaining a stoic façade, still showed some signs of nervousness in the tight clenching of his fists to the point that his knuckles protruded whitely from his skin.

Harry didn’t blame them: he was uneasy himself. Making a speech in front of a crowd of parents and Ministry officials was not exactly the most relaxing of tasks, but it was somewhat less frightening than his most recent speech – having to speak in front of a load of reporters and answer their questions, somehow convincing them that his slave’s recent meltdown wasn’t a sign of his proposed regulation being worse than useless had been a much more difficult prospect than this. Still, he could understand his companions’ nerves – this was probably the first speech they’d had to make in front of a crowd this size.

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmured to them quietly. “Just pretend you’re in your room, speaking to the mirror, or something,” he advised. Natalie sent him a grateful glance, but didn’t say anything. Green, however, sent Harry a look that was rather unfriendly. Harry lifted his eyebrows at the other man, a little taken aback, but then just turned to look back at the stage. It was almost his cue, anyway.

When the last graduate had received her scroll, it was Harry’s turn. The organisers had decided that they should go in chronological order, so Harry went first, walking to the front of the stage when his speech was announced. Standing in place, he took a moment to survey the crowd, breathing away his nerves. One person caught his eye. Tom. He was kneeling in front of where Harry would go back to sit in the first row, but his head was up. While his expression would seem closed to most people, Harry could see the subtle signs of his emotions, and the encouragement and steady belief in him helped steady him. He was glad Tom had insisted on coming.

Looking away from his slave, he started his prepared speech.

XXX

Tom knelt in front of his master’s chair, his eyes fixed on the man himself as he gave his speech. Having given a few speeches in his time, Tom could see the beginnings of a good orator in Harry. He wasn’t exactly _a natural_ with words, but he did have a way of drawing people in, making people believe in him. With a bit more practice and tuition, he would have the skill that would be necessary if he was to become Head Auror, and even Minister one day in the future.

Tom was glad that he had pushed things a bit. Harry had been doubtful of the wisdom in him coming, citing the security of the event and the fact that it was on Hogwarts grounds as his reasons for denying his slave’s request. Tom would have accepted it if he had insisted, or even if Harry had been denying him because he didn’t want his slave there, but he had been pretty sure that that wasn’t the case. He had been fairly certain that the reason Harry didn’t want him there was purely because he was trying to spare Tom having to behave according to the code of conduct during the ceremony and then the celebration feast afterwards. And Tom appreciated it, he really did. That his master wanted to spare him from something he disliked was definitely not something he took for granted. In this case, though, his consideration wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t because of concerns about security, either, which he knew was what Harry had assumed to be the reason behind his desire to come to the ceremony.

Tom had wanted to see Harry graduate. That was the whole of his reason. He wanted to see his master be given the scroll that he had received all those years ago, the scroll which stated proudly that the holder was a member of Hogwarts’ alumni. Despite how much he had disrupted his master’s education, Harry had struggled on and, presumably, had attained at least one NEWT in the exams a couple of weeks ago.

It was…nostalgic…seeing Harry standing in the same place he had stood in more than half a century ago. Of course, Tom had been chosen to be the representative for his year – he had been both Head Boy and first in his year when it came to academic excellence, so who else would it have been? More than fifty years ago, he had given his first speech to a group of adults, himself finally considered an adult. It wouldn’t be his last, but he vividly recalled the nerves he had beaten back with an iron will and the reminder of his superiority, even to these who were his seniors in age.

A sardonic twist curled at the corner of his mouth as he remembered the arrogant, egotistical boy he had been. As he listened to his master’s speech, he couldn’t help but compare them. The words were not all that different – graduation speeches tended to be along similar lines – but the feelings behind them were worlds apart. When Harry spoke of building a new world together, repairing the rifts between the different parts of society, making new discoveries and always moving forward, Tom knew that he meant it. Meant it with a passion that showed in his eyes, in his low-key gestures. Tom himself had spoken of building a new society, of discovering and rediscovering magic, of making society stronger, and all he had been dreaming of really had been increasing his own power. Of ensuring that no one could ever hurt him, ever make him feel weak and helpless again.

When the speech came to an end and applause rose around him, Tom didn’t clap. He didn’t need to. Harry just looked at him and Tom was sure that he would be able to see his emotions written all over his face. And in return, there was a glint of warmth in his master’s eyes, the reflection of his own emotions.

XXX

They were in the Great Hall. It was a bit different from normal, more similar to the Yule Ball in Harry’s Fourth year than anything else. Instead of the long house tables, there were a number of smaller, circular tables scattered all over the room, set with beautiful white tablecloths and the same silverware as had last appeared almost six years ago. Harry, of course, had been placed at the head table because of being his year’s representative, just as he had been there before because of being a Triwizard champion. The comparison was not pleasant, so he tried to push it from his mind. The whole of his Fourth year had been a mess that he’d rather not have to face again, even in memories.

Tom was kneeling at his side, slightly back. This was exactly why he had been so opposed to Tom’s presence at first – he couldn’t imagine that the man _wanted_ to be this submissive in public. The Ministry ball was one thing, but there was no other reason for him to be here than just to see Harry graduate. Still, Tom had managed to convince him that he _did_ want to come, forced to act according to the code or not.

Harry wondered how he was feeling, being back at Hogwarts. It had been just over a year since that fateful battle in this very room – the last time Tom had been here. He wondered how Tom thought about that moment now. Harry himself…it was a moment that had been victory for him, but had ended up being pyrrhic – the effects that the ritual had had on so many people…. It was a moment of added responsibility, added guilt for him. But it was also a time that had brought him Tom, and he couldn’t regret that, not really. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he finally felt hopeful that he might be able to build a relationship with someone who loved him for more than just what he’d done in the war, or what his mother had done for him as a baby.

His hand reached down to stroke Tom’s head without permission, the tumultuous emotions tumbling through him driving him to seek out comfort from the one person he was starting to trust not to betray him. He almost pulled away a moment later, worried that he was overstepping what Tom would tolerate in public. He shouldn’t have been so worried – Tom leaned into his hand, reminding him of Tom’s words that he didn’t care what happened to him, as long as Harry wanted it.

His emotions starting to settle slightly, he turned to engage Natalie in conversation. For once, they’d decided not to put Harry near the centre of the table, which he wasn’t at all offended at, glad that others were being given the spotlight. As it was, Minerva was sitting in the centre, as expected of the Headmistress. To her left were all the teachers, mostly familiar faces, but Harry didn’t recognise a couple of them who obviously taught subjects Harry hadn’t taken for NEWTs. To her right was an assortment of wizards and witches clearly from the exam board and the Ministry from their robes, then Green, Harry and Natalie towards the end. Since Natalie was on her own, Harry decided to speak to her first. Besides, Green was very pointedly keeping himself orientated towards the person on his left. Harry still didn’t know what he had against Harry, but he wasn’t nearly curious enough to even try opening whatever can of worms was involved at an event like this.

“Well done on your speech,” Harry started with a smile. “It was very engaging.” She smiled back at him, a bit tentatively, and then it widened as she grew in confidence that he wasn’t trying to mock her.

“Thank you,” she replied. “You too!” Harry shrugged.

“Nothing special,” he denied. “In fact,” he continued leaning towards her conspiratorially, her own posture following his seemingly unconsciously, “I got a former Head Boy to help me out when writing it.” She looked at him with surprise on her face.

“A Head Boy? Who?” Harry looked meaningfully down at the slave kneeling almost between them. Natalie followed his gaze uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then her eyes went wide and she lifted a hand to her mouth as she realised his meaning.

“Oh!” she exclaimed quietly, a blush moving to her cheeks. “Um,” she continued, clearly struggling to find words as her eyes seemed to be glued to Tom’s lowered head and submissive pose. “Good?” she offered finally, seeming unsure. Harry wondered whether he should have divulged that particular detail. He actually then wondered why he _had_.

Upon a moment of reflection, he decided that…that he desired to show Tom off a bit. Not in a bad way, not like the Dursleys loved showing off their flashy possessions or Vernon’s new company car, but simply because he knew how much Tom could do, how much he was worth, and he wanted everyone to see more than just the former Dark Lord when they looked at him. In the months they’d been together, Harry had come to know a lot about the man who had once been the Dark Lord Voldemort, and he wished those around him could recognise that Tom Riddle and Voldemort were two very different people.

Of course, he didn’t want to share everything – the thought of sharing Tom’s emotions or vulnerability with others made his skin crawl. But he did want others to know the talents Tom had. Voldemort had been known to be powerful, and to throw the Unforgiveables around like confetti at a wedding, but little else. Harry knew Tom was so much more than that – a capable teacher, a perfectionist cook, a fantastic conversationalist, and a canny political mind, among others. He found himself wanting to share that with others.

“Isn’t it strange to have him here?” Natalie asked suddenly. Harry almost started, having been deep in his thoughts.

“Sorry, what?” he asked, focusing on her face. Her expression was thoughtful, troubled. She waved a vague hand at the room.

“Isn’t it strange for you two to be back here, in this room? I mean, I was here when it happened – when you stormed into the room and shouted loud enough for everyone to hear your words. Then a light encircled both of you, and when it cleared, you were lying on the floor, unconscious, though I wondered whether you were dead at first, and _he_ was also collapsed, looking like he does now.” Harry paused for a moment. It was actually the first time he’d heard what had happened from an eye-witness – although he’d had the bare bones of the story when he’d woken up in the Hospital wing, he hadn’t been given all the detail. Thinking about it in that way, he supposed it was a little strange.

Looking down, he slid a hand into Tom’s hair and gently tilted his head up so their gazes met. He saw in his slave’s eyes the same thoughts being reflected back, but he also saw acceptance, peace. The Tom now and the Voldemort then were very different – had someone told him the morning of the Final Battle that this would be the situation in a year’s time, he would have laughed in their face. However, as much he searched Tom’s eyes, he couldn’t see any indication of unease, or resentment or deception. That red gaze was open, warm, trusting. It was times like this that Harry really marvelled over how far they had come. He didn’t say any of that though.

“Not really,” he said, shrugging and releasing Tom’s hair, looking back up at Natalie. “Things are different; people are different. Back then, did you think that you’d be sitting here – on the top table at your own graduation ceremony?” he asked. It was Natalie’s turn to pause and think. Harry gave her time, the food appearing on their plates during the silence. He had taken a few bites of the delicious meal before she spoke.

“I hoped it would come to this,” she said eventually, a slightly wistful note in her voice. “But there were times when it seemed like an impossible dream.” She paused for a moment, staring into the distance before turning to focus on him. “Those two years at Hogwarts with the Death Eaters in charge…the first year wasn’t so bad, while Snape was headmaster. It seems strange to say, considering how horrible he was, but he actually managed to rein in the other Death Eaters to an extent. We only realised how much that was when he disappeared and their excesses became all too obvious… We didn’t learn much, to be honest. Even for people like me, purebloods, it was a time of fear. The fear that we would be next. The fear that anyone we trusted could turn on us without a moment’s notice. The fear that even our blood couldn’t protect us.” She paused again for a moment, clearly lost in old memories. Then, shaking her head, she continued.

“Being at Hogwarts this year has been…surreal. The bloodstains wiped away, but the memories of pain and death still overlaying the stone. The teachers have been brilliant – doing their best to help us cope with the trauma at the same time as catch us up with everything we’ve missed, but…” She sighed. “I love this castle, it’s true…but I can’t wait to get out of it. I want to start afresh, start somewhere else that doesn’t have all the memories, both good and bad.” Harry nodded, he supposed he could understand.

It was different for him – he’d never gone to Hogwarts under Death Eater control, after all. Even if he’d been inclined to do so, it hadn’t been an option for the person Voldemort had most wanted to kill. Hogwarts had always been a place of safety, of security for him. Even with a few memories of the Final Battle, of dead friends and people he knew, there were so many other memories to outweigh them that it hadn’t created a sense of fear _of_ the castle. Coming back as a partial student, who didn’t stay in the dorms and didn’t always eat in the Great Hall had been weird, but not _bad_. But he could understand where Natalie was coming from; could understand her desire to make a fresh start.

They fell silent for a while, both concentrating on the food and of old memories. It was almost a shock when Tom spoke perhaps ten minutes later.

“ **Master** ,” he said tentatively. Harry hummed in response, his mouth full. “ **May I speak?** ” he asked.

“Alright,” Harry agreed slightly warily, not sure why Tom would ask to speak in public when he never had before, hoping that nothing was wrong. The sudden silence around him made him frown and look around. Natalie was staring at him, and she wasn’t the only one. Green had broken off his conversation with the witch next to him and both of them were staring too.

“What?” Harry asked, his attention being drawn away from his slave. Harry was absently aware of Tom closing his mouth from where it had been poised to speak, but his mind was a little occupied with working out why he and his slave interacting should have engendered such a reaction – shock, and _fear_. “What?” he asked again, frowning.

“It shocks me that you allow him to speak to you in such a way,” the witch to Green’s left sniffed disapprovingly. Harry’s frown deepened in confusion.

“In what way? He was perfectly polite!” Harry objected.

“What’s wrong with plain English?” the witch snapped back at him, her eyes flashing. Harry managed to hold his tongue just before retorting, the pieces falling into place.

“Tom,” he started, turning his head slightly so he could see his slave out of the corner of his eye. “Did you use Parseltongue?” he asked.

“ **Yes, master** ,” he responded, and now Harry was listening out for it, he could hear the very slight extra sibilance to the ‘s’ sounds.

“Why?” he asked with confusion. Tom shrugged very slightly, only Harry’s familiarity with him being able to identify his gesture as that.

“ **I thought that you would not appreciate me asking my question so everyone could understand it,** ” he answered promptly, the response not clearing anything up for Harry.

“Well, _stop him_ , won’t you?” snapped the witch from earlier. Harry sighed in frustration, turning back to her, annoyed that she was interrupting his conversation _again_.

“I’ll do what I like with _my slave_ , thank you very much,” he responded, doing his best to keep his voice level. Turning back to Tom, he made sure that his body language made it very clear that he wasn’t interested in continuing to respond to baseless prejudice. “What did you want to ask?” he questioned Tom.

“ **Would you feed me, master?”** He asked, and then bit his lip, clearly nervous. And now Harry realised why he had said that he thought Harry wouldn’t appreciate everyone being able to hear the question – it would probably give the impression that Harry was starving his slave. Given that Tom knew how much Harry disliked it when others assumed he was like other slave-owners, he appreciated Tom’s discretion, despite the fact that clearly the _way_ in which he’d chosen to do it hadn’t been taken well by some others at the table. Well, damn them. As he’d said to the woman, Tom was _his_ and if he was happy with him speaking Parseltongue, then so be it. He figured that putting up a privacy charm would probably be ruder than using a language that others didn’t understand. There was one problem though.

“How do you…you know? Without a snake,” he asked, sighing. Tom paused for a moment, his expression looking thoughtful.

 **“Try imagining a snake,** ” he offered. Harry did as suggested, closing his eyes and visualising a snake. Nagini popped into his mind first, and then the basilisk, but he shuddered and pushed both of those memories away – neither snake had been exactly _pleasant_ to be around, after all. In the end, he settled on the image of the first snake who he’d ever spoken to – the boa constrictor in the zoo.

“ **Is it working?** ” he asked, his eyes slitting open.

“ **Yes, master** ,” Tom responded.

“ **Alright, good. Now, didn’t you eat before we came out? I’m sure I told you to,** ” he asked, his gaze focused on Tom’s red one.

“ **I did** ,” Tom responded. Harry’s brow furrowed slightly in confusion again.

“ **Then how are you hungry already?** ” Tom shrugged.

“ **It seemed like you might be interested in hand-feeding me, when it was mentioned a while ago.** ” Harry’s frown deepened.

“ **Why here? Why now? Why not at home?”** Tom shrugged again.

“ **I suppose I…I wanted to prove to you that my words of being willing to submit in public were true** ,” he offered after a moment of thought.

“ **Was that why you were so keen to come**?” Harry asked suspiciously, his heart sinking a little. He’d hoped that when Tom had said he wanted to see his master graduate, that there weren’t any ulterior motives to it.

 **“No,”** Tom denied a moment later. “ **No, I wanted to see you graduate first and foremost. But while I was listening to your speech, I thought that maybe you’d want to…** ” Harry filled in the gaps. That maybe he’d want Tom to submit more fully in public than he had already. And while he admitted it wasn’t an unappealing thought…it was the wrong context. Tom’s submission was now a symbol to Harry of how much he had come to trust the man who had once been prophesised to kill him – it was the symbol of the struggle they’d gone through together to both come to terms with the situation they’d been thrown into without any consent from either of them. Here, though…here it would be a symbol of Tom’s defeat, or of Harry’s brutality in forcing him to behave like a trained pet, taking food from his master’s hand. So no. No way. And if Tom was hungry, then he should have followed Harry’s instructions in spirit, and actually eaten properly beforehand.

“ **No,** ” he said to Tom finally, his tone making it clear that this was indisputable. Tom lowered his head for a moment in acknowledgement.

“ **As you wish, master,”** he responded obediently. Then, hesitating, he continued. “ **May I ask why?** ”

“ **Because your submission is for me, and me alone** ,” Harry responded, knowing that his possessiveness would be coming through in his tone. He thought he saw a small smile in the corners of Tom’s mouth, but it was gone so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it.

“ **Then perhaps we can try at home**?” Tom suggested and Harry felt one corner of his own mouth kick up at the slightly sly note in his voice.

“ **Perhaps,** ” he said non-committedly. “ **At my pleasure, perhaps** ,” he teased, his mind filling with rather appealing images of Tom kneeling at his feet, taking food from his hands. Food had always been a way in which they communicated – it seemed natural for them to take this step. But it would happen when _Harry_ wanted it, not Tom.

It was fortunate that they had finished the necessary parts of their conversation as the indignation building up in the witch on the other side of Green had clearly reached its boiling point.

“Would you stop that!” the witch to Green’s left demanded shrilly. Harry sighed, sharing a last, irritated, gaze with Tom before turning around to face her.

“Why should I?” Harry replied, unable to prevent his exasperation from entering his tone. “I realise we’re being a little rude speaking a language no one else here understands, and I apologise for that, but I thought it would be better than casting a privacy charm.”

“It’s _evil_ ,” she retorted, red flags appearing in her cheeks. “I say that Slytherin house is a blemish on the world, and all animals and imagery linked with it should be wiped from the face of the Earth! Snakes and snake-speakers included!” Taken aback by her vehemence, Harry was unable to find words to respond. Sure, his experiences with Slytherins had not been…the best, but that didn’t mean that he tarred all of the people in that house with the same brush. Blaise was pretty awesome, from what he’d seen of the man, for one thing. He certainly wouldn’t have taken things to the extent of this woman, not even when he’d been on the run. Rescue came from an unexpected source.

“Did you know that Parselmouths are revered in several places across the world?” Green asked almost conversationally. “Areas such as India, the Middle East, and Australia all consider having a Parselmouth available an absolute necessity. Perhaps it’s the fact that here in Britain, we only have two species of venomous snake – one magical and one muggle – that means we don’t hold Parselmouths in high regard. In areas where the risk of being attacked and killed by snakes is much higher, Parselmouths are more appreciated.” Once more three people were staring at a fourth, but this time, at least Harry wasn’t the centre of attention. He…had never heard of that. That said, after finding out that the likely source of his ability to speak and understand Parseltongue was the man who had killed his parents, he hadn’t really been interested in finding out more.

“I didn’t know that,” he admitted out loud. “How did you find out about it?” Green turned towards him, a half-hearted glare rising in his eyes. Harry really didn’t know what had caused the other man to dislike him so, but this wasn’t the time for that.

“I read,” he answered simply. He paused for a moment and then continued. “Actually, you were the reason I did the research. After hearing in my First year that you were a Parselmouth, I was curious and went looking for information.”

“I’m impressed you remember it now,” Harry answered, a surprised note in his voice. He couldn’t think of anything that he’d learnt in his first year at Hogwarts…. Well, apart from the fact that Devil’s Snare hated fire, that was, but that had hardly been on the curriculum. Green’s expression became thoughtful.

“I think the only reason I do remember was because so many people seemed to think that being a Parselmouth made you evil,” he looked pointedly at the witch to his left before returning his gaze to Harry, “or somehow destined to be a dark wizard. Being a half-blood, but one raised by my muggle mother, I hadn’t been submerged in the prejudices that seemed to turn all most of my year into idiots who jumped to conclusions with no evidence. So, I went searching for it.”

“And?” asked Harry, fascinated. Green shrugged.

“Lots of evidence of Parselmouths across history, and just as much, or as little, evidence that being a Parselmouth was any more likely to lead to the person being a dark wizard as being human.”

“That can’t be right,” the witch scoffed. Green turned back to her. Harry couldn’t see his face, but from his body language, he imagined that it wasn’t a smile in his expression.

“Do the research. In Britain, only two known dark wizards were Parselmouths – Slytherin and You-Know-Who.” Harry could resist his eyes flicking to Tom, exchanging a look of exasperation. Honestly, Harry could understand using a nickname during the years of Taboo, but when the man himself was actually present, kneeling in a collar at the feet of his master, it seemed rather…ridiculous. More ridiculous than it had been when the world had believed him dead, even. Harry turned his head back around to meet Green’s gaze again. “I find it rather interesting to be a witness to, actually. From your responses earlier, it seemed like you hadn’t realised your…your _slave_ was speaking Parseltongue. How is that possible?” Harry shrugged. He was peripherally aware of the witch, who had been so offended by his and Tom’s use of Parseltongue, turning to speak to her other neighbour, pointedly ignoring the conversation between Harry and Green. Natalie had already turned her attention back to her plate of food, finishing off what she hadn’t yet eaten.

“It just sounds like English to me,” Harry answered honestly. “When I realised he was speaking it, I was able to identify some small signs, but…” He shrugged again. “Speaking it is harder,” he offered. “Today was the first time I did it without having at least the image of a snake in front of me. It’s automatic when I have a snake there.” Green’s eyes were gleaming with curiosity, and Harry was starting to see why he’d been put in Ravenclaw – the pursuit of knowledge for interests’ sake was clearly something important to the young man.

“Interesting,” he breathed. “And _how_ do you do it, do you know?” Harry floundered – this was far out of his depth. Fortunately, he had someone nearby who had proven to be somewhat of a sponge for knowledge.

“I don’t know,” he readily admitted. “But,” he continued, seeing a flash of disappointment cross Green’s face, “Tom might, if you want to ask him.” Green’s expression blanked, not letting an iota of his feelings onto it. “I mean, if you don’t want to speak to him, I can ask him,” Harry offered, suddenly realising that maybe someone mightn’t want to speak to the architect of so much misery recently. Green shook his head.

“It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s…” he sighed. “I don’t want you to order him to answer my questions. He’s a human being, not a textbook, obliged to give up its secrets to whoever opens it.” Harry looked at Green in some surprise. He had a suspicion building…

“Is that the reason you’ve been behaving like I killed your cat?” he asked shrewdly. “Because I own a slave?” Green looked away for a moment, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

“Partially,” he admitted a moment later. “And partially because it was by your actions that slavery was reintroduced to the Wizarding world again. Moral concerns aside, I’ve read far too many accounts of how slavery in a society was ultimately the cause of its downfall to relish the prospect of it being part of mine. Either because of unchecked decadence caused by the unpaid underclass doing the majority of the hard work, or because of internal revolutions, slavery has never been of more than a temporary benefit to the society.” Huh. Interesting concerns – he hadn’t come across _those_ reasons to be anti-slavery before.

“Well,” he started slowly, “I doubt that slavery will actually be reintroduced as a general fact – this particular instance was more of a result of an intervention by a deity, and as far as I know, there aren’t even murmurs of reinstituting slavery as punishment for crimes outside this particular situation. If there were, I would fight against it. As for moral concerns…I’ve been trying to work towards bringing in measures to limit abuse of slaves. Perhaps you’ve seen something about that?” Green shrugged.

“I saw your interview. It sounded like you were much more concerned with maintaining your rights as a slave owner than bringing in sweeping change,” he criticised. Harry didn’t take offence – he had known that that approach was likely to bring accusations such as this.

“Because I had been convinced by someone who knows better that it was necessary to have at least most of the other slave-owners on board in order to make any sort of progress,” he replied frankly. “I needed to balance pro-slavery sentiments with anti-abuse messages. If you’re interested in working towards helping the anti-abuse movement, you could join our group. We’ve only got one alumnus from Ravenclaw, actually, so you’d be very welcome.” It was actually true, though not something Harry had thought about before that moment – five Gryffindors, three Slytherins, and one each from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. “Alternatively, if you haven’t got other after-school plans, you could always go into the Department for Control of Magical Creatures – Hermione’s running that and she’s the one who started the group, as well as being the one to put all these regulations into practice.” Green paused for a moment and then nodded his head slowly.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he replied non-committedly.

“Alright. Now, you wanted to ask about Parseltongue. Tom, how do you feel about answering questions about Parseltongue? Answer honestly,” he added, for appearances’ sakes.

“I’d be happy to do so,” Tom answered, looking up at Harry, sincerity in his expression and voice. Harry looked back at Green, seeing a thoughtful look on his face.

“All yours,” he said. “Ask away.” After a moment’s pause, Green did just that. Harry started eating his dessert to the sound of the two men conversing surprisingly easily considering the public venue.

XXX

Someone had crossed the ward lines. Tom frowned, lifting his head from where it had been bent over his desk, making notes about the animagus potion. It was by far the quickest way to kick-start learning to be an animagus, but it was _terribly_ complex. Perhaps _Severus_ would have been able to do it at Hogwarts, but Tom wouldn’t have, despite his advanced knowledge of Potions. Still, he had improved since his NEWTs, so he felt fairly confident at making it, but still wasn’t willing to try before he knew the recipe inside out.

However, that was beside the point. The most important question right now was about who the person was at the door, and _why_ they were here when his master wasn’t. Going downstairs, he opened the front door, his wand ready to emerge with a flick of his wrist. About to ask politely the identity of the person, his eyes went wide in shock.

“Bella?!” he spluttered, taking a step back in surprise. Because it was her, for certain. Her hair was bound back into a slightly-wild plait, her face and body were covered with bruises, and she was as skinny as she had been when he’d rescued her from Azkaban, along with the others, but it was her. She stepped forward and collapsed at his feet into a kneeling position with her face on the floor.

“Master!” he heard her say into the doormat. “Master!” Tom lifted his hand to his forehead and massaged it, keeping an explosive sigh in by sheer will. Bella had always been one of his most…temperamental Death Eaters. Loyal beyond anyone else, she would do anything to anyone at his slightest expressed wish, especially after her stay in Azkaban. Even before that, though, she’d been a bit…off. Probably the Black madness. All of her family had had _something_ wrong with them. Bellatrix, however, had taken ‘wrong’ to the limits of credulity.

Though, thinking about it…loyalty. Unless he’d severely misjudged her, she’d been _loyal_ for a lot longer than a year. If so, wouldn’t she still be a slave? He crouched down and shifted her hair off her neck. She didn’t move, just continuing to chant ‘master’ into the floor. Yes. She was. Tom tapped his lips in thought. There seemed to be no sign of her actual master around, so _how_ did she get here? Well, no point staying in the doorway when they could be somewhere more comfortable.

“Come on, Bella,” he told her calmly, standing up in a smooth motion. She immediately scrambled to her feet and followed him as he walked towards the kitchen, closing the door with a flick of his magic. He could have taken her to the sitting room, but that didn’t seem wise since it was also the floo entrance. Going inside, he took his normal chair at the table and waved Bella to the one Draco had taken when he’d been staying with them. She took the seat with a bow to him, and then drank in his features like he was a life-saving draught of water after a long period in the desert. Tom found himself wanting to shift uncomfortably at her regard.

It was strange. When he had rescued her from Azkaban, she had behaved similarly when she had gained enough lucidity to realise that she was out of the prison and with her lord. At the time, he had accepted it as his due, enjoying her devotion for as long as it was amusing to him, and then discarding her when he was bored. His rejection had never dampened her fervour – perhaps it had even stoked it. But now….

Now it felt uncomfortable. He didn’t deserve her devotion, even born of madness that it was. What had he ever done to deserve her loyalty? He had taken someone who was already struggling to fit into society, and then had twisted her until she became…until she became who she was now. At this point, he didn’t think she _could_ become anyone else – she was too far gone in her madness. It seemed as impossible for her to heal as it would have been for him to do so, had Lady Magic not reunited his horcruxes. She had gone to Azkaban for loyalty to him, and he had ruined her.

“Show me your wrists, Bella,” he ordered abruptly, deciding he could do _something_ for her, at least.

“Yes, master,” she replied, her voice tight with pain, lifting her arms and placing them on the table, hands upwards. He frowned at her tone, searching her expression. There. Lines at the corner of her eyes and mouth, faint, but obvious when he was looking for them.

“Are you in pain, Bella?” he asked.

“It is of no matter, my lord,” she responded dismissively.

“It matters if I say it does,” he replied sharply. She lowered her eyes and he immediately regretted his tone – hadn’t he just been thinking about how badly he had treated her in the past?

“Yes, master,” she replied, a note of servility in her voice that he immediately despised, if only because he knew that as Voldemort he would have _loved_ it.

“Are you, then?” he asked again, trying to be a bit softer. She hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

“I have been forbidden to use furniture by the _false master,_ ” she spat out. “But for you master, I will endure,” she continued, a familiar fanatic look entering her eyes. He didn’t doubt it – she had always had a masochistic streak a mile wide, and an uncannily high pain threshold. In fact, he reckoned that the only reason she had tried to avoid his _crucio_ in the past had been because they were signs of his displeasure, more than for the sheer pain they gave. Tom caught himself before he responded – for all that he had decided to treat her better, it would not do to be seen as _weak_. Not by her. Not by anyone. Only Harry had that honour.

“It would please me to have you kneel at my feet once more,” he said loftily instead. A moment later, his ‘wish’ had been fulfilled, Bellatrix once more grovelling at his feet with her face pressed to the floor. And he hated it.

“Sit up,” he ordered, the sharp note back, for all that he tried to push it away. She immediately obeyed, her expression eager, her eyes bright. They felt like knives to his chest. He held his hands out. “Your wrists,” he ordered shortly, wanting to be distracted. She held out her arms, hands dangling as if she expected him to clap her wrists in irons or something. She wouldn’t protest if he did. Instead, he inspected what he had spotted earlier – the way the skin around her wrists was torn to shreds.

“How did this happen?” he asked absently as he flicked his own wrist to bring out his wand and started casting some of the healing magic he had started learning on the cuts. Under his eyes, they started healing, the raw flesh scabbing over and then being replaced by new skin. He was actually rather surprised that she hadn’t done permanent damage to herself – some of those cuts had been deep enough to bite into her tendons.

“I _knew_ you would succeed in overcoming the collar, master,” Bella responded, her eyes brighter than they had been a moment ago, her expression twisted into glee and admiration. “I _knew_ that, whatever the _false master_ said, and the newspaper said, it was all just an act. A lie to deceive the masses. But not me, no, not Bella. _I_ knew better.” Tom again stopped himself shifting in unease.

“How did it happen?” he asked again, not responding to her statement. She waved a careless hand.

“The _false master_ tried to keep me away from you. He chained me to a wall, but chains aren’t enough to stop your Bella from coming to find you, no, no, no!” A grimace appeared on his face, but he managed to change it into something resembling a smile. Not that he thought she would be affected by a _grimace_ , but….

“I appreciate your loyalty,” he said finally, once more avoiding the real subject. How was he going to explain this to his master? “Now, tell me. How did you find me? How did you escape your…the false master?”

XXX

Harry sighed as he opened the front door of his house, tired after another day of gruelling Auror training. Their year as ‘recruits’ was coming to an end and the final assignments had already been submitted; now they were having a couple of weeks of mostly physical lessons before they had to undergo a battery of assessments to test how well they had absorbed what they had learned and how well they could apply it. Honestly though, there was a test he was looking forward to – the field trip. They would be taken one by one to a ‘crime site’ and would have to use the skills they had learned to talk about what to do and the various rules and regulations which would come into play.

Before that one happened, though, he’d have to get through the training in physical fitness and magical casting. He’d never been put through his paces in such a way, and found himself glad that they had been working up to this since January. He was even gladder that he and Tom had kept up their duelling, though they hadn’t had any matches in the last few weeks. He headed directly to the sitting room to put his briefcase down before going to the kitchen. When he turned around near his desk, he saw Tom had appeared in the doorway.

“Master,” Tom greeted him with a bow of his head.

“Tom,” Harry said warmly in return. “Aren’t you cooking?” he asked with a feeling of confusion, although he supposed his slave could have put the supper under a stasis charm so that he could safely come and speak to Harry. Why he would do that though….

“Yes, master,” Tom answered distractedly, “but there’s something else you need to know about first.” He hesitated and then moved towards Harry, biting his lip. Harry watched him, feeling slightly concerned at his clear nervousness. What had happened? Tom opened his mouth to speak, but a movement in the doorway caught Harry’s attention.

“Master?” he heard an all-too-familiar voice say, and his wand rose immediately to attack the intruder.

“Lestrange,” he hissed angrily, everything this woman had done rising in his mind. Why was she here? _How_ was she here? The questions in his mind were swept away by his focus on the situation when a wand suddenly appeared in her hand and was raised threateningly.

“Ittle bitty Potty,” she sing-songed, her teeth bared in a caricature of a smile. “Such a big man now, but you’ll still writhe under Bella’s wand. _Crucio_ ,” she intoned.

“Bella, no!” shouted Tom, leaping in front of Harry to intercept the spell. His actions were, in the end, unnecessary, since Lestrange wasn’t actually able to cast the spell, crumpling to the floor a moment later. Harry sent a quick binding charm at the Death Eater lying on the ground, summoned her wand, and then gripped Tom’s arm a little tighter than perhaps comfortable, pulling on it to turn the slave so they were face to face again.

“I presume you’ll be explaining _this_ ,” he said, his tone glacial. He trusted Tom, he did, but suddenly having one of the man’s top Death Eaters attack him in the middle of his sitting room was enough to shake anyone. Tom winced a little at the grip, but didn’t fight it, instead meeting Harry’s eyes with hints of fear, relief, and shame written in them.

“Of course, master,” Tom murmured. “I was about to – I thought she would stay in the kitchen until I had finished explaining.”

“Clearly, that didn’t happen,” Harry replied, his tone perhaps a bit sharp. Still, he felt he could be forgiven for it, considering the situation. Tom winced again, this time because of Harry’s words.

“No, master,” he acknowledged. “I’m sorry,” he apologised, his tone sincere. Harry sighed and finally released his hold on Tom’s arm, going over to sit in his desk chair. Tom came to kneel at his feet, facing him.

“Alright,” Harry said. “Talk.” And Tom talked.

XXX

Tom’s master sighed, rubbing his temples with both hands in a way very reminiscent of what Tom had done upon realising that Bellatrix had really appeared on his doorstep.

“So what you’re telling me is that somehow, Lestrange escaped her master, stole his wand, put the pieces together that I might be living in the Black hereditary house in London, and that if I was here, you probably were too, found her way here, and just turned up on the doorstep?” Harry’s voice sounded incredulous and Tom couldn’t blame him. He’d been rather incredulous himself when Bella had told the story to him at first, but the proof was in her presence with no master. Plus in the various injuries she’d appeared with.

“Yes, master,” he said, meeting Harry’s eyes to indicate his honesty. Harry shook his head.

“I thought the collar was supposed to _stop_ this sort of thing from happening,” he complained in frustration. Tom shrugged.

“The collar uses varying quantities of pain to ensure the slave’s compliance,” he reminded his master. “Apart from when trying to hurt someone, the punishments are on a steadily increasing scale.” He looked at Harry meaningfully. His master just looked back at him with steadily increasing frustration.

“And the relevance of that is…?” Harry asked impatiently.

“The relevance,” Tom explained, keeping his calm “is that disobeying the master’s command to do something leads to steadily increasing pain until the order is accomplished. Crossing a wardline, however, I can easily imagine as being a quickly increasing pain that continues as long as you try to cross it, but stops once you are actually past, as the punishment is in _trying_ to escape. Not escaping itself, unless that was a separate order from the master. Given what I know of Bella, I can quite imagine her pushing through the pain until it went away.” Harry eyed him in silence for a few moments.

“That seems like…a rather _badly_ thought-out limitation. Why didn’t _you_ use it, then? In the first few months, at least.” Tom shrugged.

“Honestly, I’m only theorising at this point, from my knowledge of the collar and of Bella. At the time, I hadn’t thought it possible. Besides, there’s not much point in trying to escape – there are tracking spells built into the collars which can be activated by the Ministry at any time. Added to that, without the ability to use magic, what kind of life would it be? Especially if, like in Bella’s case, the basic rules of the collar seem to mostly be in effect.”

“Then why has Lestrange done it? Why has she tried to escape so pointlessly?” asked Harry. It was a good question. Tom shrugged again.

“Bella…” he trailed off, trying to work out how to respond. “She hasn’t been _all there_ since coming back from Azkaban, if she ever was completely _there_ in the first place. I doubt she put much thought into it at all. From the sounds of it, she saw an old copy of the newspaper with me in Diagon Alley and then decided to come and find me.” Harry stared at him.

“That’s it?” he asked. Tom nodded.

“That’s it.” There was a period of silence for a few moments as the information sank in. It was broken by a quiet groan from the unconscious woman on the floor. She was coming round. Tom looked at her and then back at Harry. “May I speak to her?” he asked. Harry sighed, but then nodded.

“See if you can convince her not to attack on sight,” he said with a wry note in his voice. “Oh, and get her master’s name out of her, would you?” he asked as an after-thought. Tom hesitated, about to follow his master’s instructions, but unable to prevent certain images coming into his mind.

“Master,” he started and then paused, not sure how to put his thoughts into words. “Why do you want to know her master’s name?” he asked finally, deciding to verify his thoughts first. Harry looked at him as if he was mad.

“To send her back to him, of course,” he said in a tone that made it clear he felt that this was perfectly obvious. Which it was, but… Harry must have read something in his expression because his own suddenly became stubborn and hard. “No,” he said firmly. “We are _not_ running a home for Death Eaters here,” he told Tom sternly. “Not even for your favourite one.” Tom sighed. He hadn’t been thinking of that…but he supposed it wasn’t terribly different from what he _had_ been thinking.

“I know,” he replied quietly, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “It’s just… When she arrived, she was covered in bruises. Even the small amount of healing magic I’ve been able to learn so far identified several bones as having set wrong, and there having been a significant amount of trauma to her skin. She’s…she’s been punished. Heavily. And no doubt there are worse injuries which I cannot detect yet with my limited skills in the area.”

“You can’t say she doesn’t deserve it, though,” Harry said, his tone unmoving. “She’s killed and tortured so many. Neville’s parents, my godfather....”

“But then am I not equally to blame?” Tom asked quietly. Harry stared at him for a moment more and then groaned, throwing his head back against the seat.

“Yes,” he admitted finally. “Yes, you’re to blame for the orders you gave her, and for your encouraging of her murderous tendencies which led to her…extra-curricular activities. That said, from what I’ve heard, she would have ended up going down a dark path anyway.” When his eyes met Tom’s in question, the slave couldn’t help nodding a little – it was true. If he hadn’t taken Bella, she would have found some other dark wizard to follow and emulate – it was just the way she was. But she probably wouldn’t have been quite as…vicious, without his encouragement. Or as knowledgeable without his tutorage. “Besides, that’s different.”

“Because you love me,” Tom answered, not sure whether it was meant to be an accusation or a neutral statement. Harry suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“I hadn’t considered _that_ ,” he murmured quietly, “but I suppose you have a point. I was more referring to the fact that you have reformed, and _she_ clearly hasn’t.” Alright, Tom had to give him that one – Bella _definitely_ hadn’t reformed, and Tom doubted she actually had the capacity to do so.

“It’s true, master, but…” he sighed. “It seems such a harsh punishment for loyalty,” he continued, finally. “She gave me twenty-eight years, and she will be punished for them.”

“She spent most of that time being a terror to society,” Harry rebutted. “And she’s paying for that.” He wasn’t budging. Tom searched around for something else he could use. He thought of something, but hesitated about whether he should use it or not. In the end deciding to go for it, he looked back at his master.

“Master, do you remember the funfair?”

“That red and yellow stuffed snake?” Harry reminisced with a smile creeping onto his face. “Oh yes.” His expression turned salacious. “And the rest of that evening.” Tom felt heat flush through his face at the thought of their first time together. Of course, they’d done it many times since, and in many different positions. His hope of penetrating his master had come true, and Harry had proved his point of not needing to be the ‘top’ in order to be in control. Still, as delightful as those memories were, he couldn’t let them distract him.

“Do you remember the wager we made at the gun stall?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, wariness creeping into his voice as the smile slipped off his face.

“I’d like to call that in,” Tom murmured, his heart in his mouth, not certain at all that what he was doing was the right thing, but knowing he had to _try_.

“I see,” Tom’s master responded, his voice worrisomely controlled. “And _how_ exactly do you want to call it in?”

“Can’t you buy her leasehold?” he asked. Harry’s face twisted in anger and Tom immediately looked down, a wave of guilt and shame going through him at angering his master, something inside him saying he’d pushed too far.

“I am _not_ sharing my house with _Bellatrix Lestrange_ ,” he hissed at Tom.

“Not for her to live with us,” Tom hurriedly clarified, feeling an immediate disgust himself at the idea. “For you to sell her to someone who isn’t going to _abuse_ her.” Silence fell for a few moments and Tom looked up to see his master surveying him carefully.

“How would that look?” Harry asked him quietly. “Harry Potter ensuring the well-being of Bellatrix Lestrange and leaving all the other slaves, most of whom had committed lesser crimes, to rot? Quite apart from the fact that I have little reason to give special treatment to the woman who murdered my godfather, and condemned one of my friends to live with parents forever in St Mungo’s, depriving him of them just as surely as _your_ actions deprived me of _mine_.” Tom looked away, the words hitting home. He knew he was asking for much, for too much really, but....

This was _Bella_ , the powerful, vicious fighter who had been one of the few to look for him after his destruction in 1981, and one of the very few to go to Azkaban rather than foreswear her loyalty to him. One of the few who had still been on his side after the collars had appeared around their necks. He felt like he owed her more than just consigning her back to whatever hell she had been living in. Not to mention the millstone of guilt he felt hanging around his neck for putting her in this position to begin with.

But then this was also his master, the one he had vowed to serve and protect such a short time ago. He had said, had vowed to put his master’s needs before his own, unless in doing so it caused him physical or emotional harm. Helping Bella would hurt his master; of the two of them, he knew which one he would choose to hurt, if hurting was inevitable.

“I’m sorry, master,” he said in the end, his eyes downcast, and his tone subdued. “It’s too much to ask for, I realise. I withdraw my request,” he managed to choke out, his guilt strangling his words. He knew Bella was listening, knew she could hear him putting Harry’s emotions above her well-being. He used the renewed guilt in that as a tool of self-flagellation, forcing himself to feel it full force rather than using his Occlumency to soften the blow. There was a short silence before Harry spoke next.

“Merlin,” he said, an empty note of humour in his voice. “I thought you’d use that for something uncomfortable or embarrassing. Something I didn’t really want to do, but that wasn’t…big. I wasn’t expecting _this_.” Tom stayed silent, his head down. Harry sighed and his hand reached forward to grip his chin gently, tilting it upwards. Tom didn’t fight the movement, meeting his master’s eyes with all the guilty resignation and despairing regret that were swimming around inside him. Harry observed him for a long, uncomfortable moment, his eyes seeming to see too much. “This is important to you?” he asked softly. Tom nodded, forcing himself to keep that eye contact. Harry sighed. “I’m not buying her leasehold,” he stated unequivocally. “Not now, not ever.”

Tom felt his heart sink inside him, despite himself, despite withdrawing his request. He’d hoped… But he understood his master’s reasoning, understood that Harry had no reason to give Bellatrix a chance. Merlin, it was a miracle that he had given _Tom_ a chance in the first place, though they’d rather been forced into that. “However,” Harry continued with a slight softening in his voice, “I will speak to the master, and… _encourage_ him, or her, to follow the regulations when it comes to punishment. Perhaps you can come with me and prove how sometimes, the carrot and not the stick works better.” His final words were a little sardonic, but Tom couldn’t blame him for that – he was aware of how much doing _anything_ for Bellatrix was against Harry’s inclinations. “Will that ease your conscience?” he asked. Tom jerked slightly, his eyes widening slightly. How had Harry…? Ruefully, he had to admit to himself that these days, perhaps he was a little _too_ predictable. To his master, at least.

“It will help, master,” he said honestly. “Thank you.” It wasn’t perfect, not even close. But it was something. At least he could feel that he had done _something_ for one of his most loyal, instead of just throwing her back into a hellish existence for the next three decades. And in the end, if he couldn’t help, who was really to blame? He looked back up at his master, unable to express his emotions, but trusting his master to be able to read them nonetheless. Harry’s expression stayed fixed in its hard lines for a moment longer before softening.

“OK, good,” he said finally. Reaching forward, he wove his hand into Tom’s hair. The usual lovely feelings rolled through Tom, starting at his head and then going south. His eyes half-closed but he was still aware when Harry leaned forward to capture his lips in a kiss. Relaxing into his master’s hold and letting him control the kiss, Tom couldn’t help moaning slightly. “I love you,” Harry said quietly, pulling away from his lips just enough to form his into words.

“I love you, too,” Tom replied, trying to put all his devotion, all his desperation into those few words. Those few words which now defined him. “I’m yours,” he added, completing the thought. Harry smiled at him, his eyes and expression back to the warmth they had been before.

“Mine,” he acknowledged with a small tug on Tom’s hair that almost made him moan again. “Mine to care for, mine to guide. You’ve done what you can for Lestrange – the rest is my concern.” Tom suddenly realised that he had been needing to hear those words, that they were the key to him releasing the guilt and regret that clawed at his throat and stomach like a wild animal. The emotions he had been feeling were pushed to the side, temporarily tamed. The reminder that his master owned him, that Harry owned his decisions, that he could do _nothing_ to affect _anything_ outside himself without his master’s consent…he suddenly felt relaxed for the first time since he had opened the door and seen Bella on the doorstep.

XXX

“Now,” Harry asked a few moments later. “Did you manage to cook supper despite your…guest? Or do I need to go and make something?”

“I made supper,” Tom reassured him hurriedly, the thought of allowing something like Bellatrix turning up to disrupt one of the few duties his master had told him was important for him, was anathema to the new Tom. He’d cheated a bit – used a few spells to speed up the process – but he’d succeeded in getting it ready. “It’s under a stasis charm in the kitchen.” Harry nodded and stood, Tom rising with him a moment later.

“Alright, good. I’m hungry, so I’ll go and eat. You deal with Lestrange and join me when everything’s sorted.”

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged with a short bow of his head. Harry passed a last soft caress over his cheek and then turned away to the door, walking past the bound woman near the entrance to the room without a second glance. Tom followed him to the door and then leant against the frame, wanting to be a physical barrier between his former Death Eater and his master in case she took it into her head to try attacking her again – Tom knew from experience that the collar was no guarantee of the docility of its wearer.

When he couldn’t hear Harry’s footsteps any longer, he flicked his hand and released Bella’s bonds. She stood slowly, rubbing where the rope had bitten into her exposed flesh. When her eyes met Tom’s he saw confusion and curiosity in them, but none of the betrayal or anger he had expected. She cocked her head to one side in a child-like gesture of incomprehension.

“Master calls the Potter boy master? Master _kneels_ to the Potter boy…? Is this your glorious strategy, Master?” she asked, taking a step forward, her eyes eager. “Are you convincing the boy that you are his loyal slave, only to turn _him_ into the puppet, heralding the rise of the Dark Lord, greater and more powerful than ever before, with his final enemy at his side?” She spoke with the fervour of a zealot and the excitement of a child, almost bouncing in place. Little did she know that every word she spoke stabbed at him like a knife, because that was _exactly_ what he would have tried to do, had Harry allowed him to, had Harry not been the way he was and changed him instead.

“No,” Tom replied, his voice harsh. The single word cut through Bellatrix’s excitement and she once more tilted her head to one side in her lack of understanding. “Lord Voldemort is dead, Bella,” he told her slowly, firmly, and leaving no doubt for her to seize upon, his eyes boring into hers. “He will never rise again.” Her head came slowly into an upright position, and then tilted to the other side, a frown furrowing her brows.

“I don’t understand,” she said finally. That she didn’t add on a ‘Master’ made him hope that maybe he was getting through.

“This is my choice, Bella,” Tom continued, suddenly feeling tired. He sighed. “I was wrong to be Lord Voldemort. I was wrong in _so much_ of what I did. So now, I am not him anymore, and will never be him again. I am just Tom, the slave of Harry Potter. That’s what I’ve chosen to be. It would be better for you to forget I ever existed and to just serve out your sentence as well as you can, making the best of the life you will have left when you’re released.” Slumping against the frame, he stared at her tiredly, wondering how she would react. He really didn’t know. If she tried to attack him, or Harry, he would subdue her as painlessly as possible. That seemed like the most likely option – how would he feel to know that the man he had given his loyalty to, and so many years of servitude, had repudiated his own cause so thoroughly?

Bella just continued staring for him a few moments longer. Then, in a fluid motion that made him tense in preparation for attack, she slid to her knees in front of him. Tom’s jaw loosened, though he managed to keep himself from gaping gormlessly in confusion.

“Bella, what are you doing?” he asked when he finally found his words.

“You are my Master,” she told him seriously. “And if you have accepted another as your master, then I acknowledge him as my Master’s master. Harry Potter must be great indeed to have earned the loyalty of such a powerful and terrible lord such as my master.” Well, he hadn’t expected that.

XXX

Harry was munching the steak and kidney pie Tom had prepared and left under a stasis charm. It was rather delicious, he had to say. With all the experience lately, and his perfectionist nature, Harry felt that Tom was actually starting to surpass his own abilities in the kitchen. It seemed strange to think that a few months of practice could match up to _years_ cooking, but he supposed that he had always been _forced_ to do it – either by the Dursleys or by necessity, so he’d never been all that interested in improving his skills past being good enough to avoid punishment. Tom however…although he’d been ordered to do it at the start, in the past few months he’d actually seemed to take pride in producing tasty meals. Harry had taken a look at one of the recipe books when it had been left open on the side, and had been curious to note the number of annotations to the side of the recipe – edits which Tom had evidently decided were improvements on the original.

Well, whatever the reason, Harry certainly wasn’t complaining – having food like this to look forward to every day was definitely something that he appreciated. He wasn’t however, so deep in his enjoyment that he didn’t notice when Tom entered the room. Twisting around, Harry opened his mouth to ask how things had gone, when he noticed Lestrange following at his slave’s heels like a puppy.

“Tom…?” he asked, a note of wary question in his voice. He trusted that Tom wouldn’t bring her here just to attack him, but he’d already had the woman try to send one Cruciatus at him that evening; he’d rather not repeat that, for all the curse hadn’t actually been produced before she’d been knocked unconscious.

“She understands the situation, master,” Tom reassured him. “She won’t cause any trouble.” Harry held his gaze for a moment and then met Lestrange’s eyes. She flicked her gaze down to the floor and, a moment later, slid to her knees next to Harry’s chair.

“What…?” Harry asked, startled and confused. He looked back up at Tom and knew his expression was very clearly saying his question for him. Had Tom ordered her to do this or something? Harry’s slave just had a small smirk on his face.

“Bella,” he started, his eyes on Harry.

“Yes, Master?” she asked, her tone eager.

“Who is Harry to you?”

“My Master’s master,” she answered promptly, no hesitation or doubt in her voice. Harry found a frown starting to crease his brow. Had Tom…?

“No,” Tom answered his unspoken thought. “She decided that by herself after I explained everything to her. She recognised that there must be something special about you if I had decided to call you ‘master’, and thus since I was already her Master…” He trailed off, shrugging. Harry looked at him, and then down at the woman kneeling at his feet who was looking up at him with curiosity and surprisingly sharp eyes.

“Alright,” Harry said finally, deciding to just accept it. For now at least. “Sit down and eat already – your pie’s delicious, by the way.” Tom smiled at the compliment and smoothly slid into his chair, summoning his plate of food with a flick of wandless magic. Harry looked down at Lestrange. She was pretty thin, he noted – worse than Tom had been when he’d first arrived, or after his time with Richards. “Are you allowed to eat?” he asked, very aware that the collar’s coding might not allow her to. She cocked her head to one side.

“Do you wish me to eat, Master’s master?” she asked. Harry almost grimaced – this situation was almost surreal. Bellatrix Lestrange, kneeling at his feet and calling him ‘Master’s master’ was almost stranger than Tom telling him he _wanted_ to be a slave. Still, he hadn’t got the answer he wanted – a different tack might be required.

“What would the collar do if I gave you some food now?” he asked. She paused for a moment in thought.

“I think it wouldn’t react, Master’s master,” she said eventually. “I haven’t eaten today, and it permits me a meal a day.” Harry nodded.

“Alright, good.” He looked over at Tom who was watching the interaction with a mixture of amusement and some other emotion which wasn’t so easily identifiable. “Did you make enough for three?” he asked. Tom nodded and levitated a third plate over which Harry hadn’t noticed.

“I thought you might want to feed her,” he remarked with a slight smirk. Harry half-glared at him, but couldn’t really argue – if past experiences had shown anything, feeding slaves seemed to be Harry’s go-to activity. Instead, he just rolled his eyes and took the plate.

“Here,” he said to Lestrange, handing her a set of cutlery along with the plate. She looked from the plate to him a couple of times, her eyes wide, but thankfully she didn’t try to argue, and instead dove in with the manners of a starving wolf. Harry swiftly returned his attention to his own plate so as not to lose his appetite at the sight, not that he could blame her for diving in with such fervour.

In the end, the meal went by in a silence which wasn’t as uncomfortable or awkward as Harry would have expected had someone presented that scenario to him even a few weeks ago. Still, he would be grateful when Lestrange was out of his home, and it was back to him and Tom once more.

XXX

Harry knocked at the door in front of him, feeling irritated. He supposed that it was rather grand looking, but that meant very little to him – Malfoy Manor had been even grander, but it hadn’t had nearly the same amount of character as the comparatively ramshackle Burrow. An elf opened the door and he managed to smile at the small creature, seeing no need to be rude to the elf, regardless of his opinion of its master.

“Hows can Blinky helps yous?” the elf asked.

“Harry Potter to see John Greenham,” Harry responded. Blinky’s eyes widened upon hearing his name, and the elf let out a squeak.

“Blinky will announce yous right away, Mr Potter,” the elf told him with excitement in his squeaky voice. “Please come in, Blinky will shows you to the parlour.” Parlour. That was enough right there to tell Harry who exactly he was dealing with here, as if the general snobbishness of the entrance way and the way Lestrange had been treated wasn’t enough. Aunt Petunia had always insisted on referring to the sitting room as a ‘parlour’ whenever she had guests around. It had left Harry with an abiding distaste for the word.

Instead of saying anything, though, he just followed the Blinky in. Tom followed him a step behind, and then Lestrange a step behind that. When Blinky saw the woman, his already large eyes bugged out a bit more. “Blinky will inform Master about the return of his bunny, too.” Harry exchanged a look with Tom at that, each of them holding a similar disbelief that anyone would ever call Bellatrix Lestrange a _bunny_.

A few minutes later, Harry was sitting at a chair in the ‘parlour’, a tea service on the table at his elbow, and Tom and Bellatrix kneeling either side of his feet. He hadn’t needed to give any instructions – Tom had immediately taken his place and Lestrange had followed suit. After the discussion Tom had had with her the day before, she seemed to have decided that she would offer him the same deference Tom did. Harry just found it extremely weird, although he couldn’t argue that it was a _bad_ thing. Much better than her trying to curse him every few minutes, at any rate.

There was the thundering sound of someone running down the stairs, but by the time the man entered the room, he looked put together and relaxed, clearly trying to give off the impression that the situation was under his control. His attempt was rather set-back by the fact that as soon as his eyes landed on the kneeling Bellatrix Lestrange, they almost bugged out of his head, and he seemed to choke on his own saliva. Coughing and spluttering for a moment, he soon got himself under control and approached Harry. Deciding to be polite for now, Harry stood and took the hand that the man offered, shaking it with a firm grip. Perhaps his grip was a little harder than necessary, but it didn’t really deserve the slight wince the man gave or the subtle shaking out of his hand afterwards.

“Mr Greenham, I presume,” Harry asked neutrally, making sure his immediate dislike of the man didn’t come through. He wasn’t exactly sure why Greenham made his hackles rise, but there was something…smarmy about the man that reminded him of far too many people he’d met who would be unctuous to one’s face, and then whisper the vilest rumours behind one’s back. He didn’t look a bit like Uncle Vernon – too thin by half, brown hair, and pale olive skin – but there was somehow something there that reminded Harry of him. Which didn’t work in the man’s favour, at all.

“Mr Potter, a pleasure to have you visit my _humble_ home. Please, sit,” he gestured, moving to sit in his own chair. Harry arranged himself in the seat languidly, crossing one leg over at the knee. “What brings you here?” he asked, his eyes being drawn inexorably to the slave kneeling so docilely to Harry’s left before returning to meet his gaze.

“I believe I found something of yours that you had misplaced,” Harry offered, pointedly looking at Lestrange.

“Ah, ahaha,” the man chuckled nervously. “I’m not sure I’d say I _misplaced_ her, exactly,” he tried. Harry just raised his eyebrows at the man. 

“Then you ordered her to come to my house with a wand and _attack_ me?” he asked coldly. Greenham paled, as well he should. If Harry reported him to the Ministry, not only would Lestrange be punished, but Greenham could very easily be argued to have lost control of his slave and allowed her to become a danger to the public. That would probably end up with her being taken away. Given Harry’s status in the Wizarding world, if he publicised the event, Mr Greenham could find himself a pariah in many circles… if he escaped a potential court case – there was a reason why Harry had warned Tom against committing acts which Harry himself could be prosecuted for.

“A-attack you? A _wand_?” Harry withdrew the stick of wood from his pocket and placed it on the table at his elbow after seeing the light of recognition in the man’s face.

“A wand,” Harry repeated calmly, coldly. Greenham bit his lip, his earlier attempts to look cool, collected, and relaxed completely vanished.

“I’m sorry, Mr Potter,” he said in the end, worry in his voice. “I-I’ve been doing my best, but she just…nothing seems to _work_! She does something, I punish her. She laughs in my face and dares me to do more! I had her shackled in the basement, but she even escaped _that_. I’m at my wits end and that’s the truth!” Harry felt a mixture of pity and disgust. Pity because, in all honesty, he didn’t envy the master of Lestrange. But then he would never have chosen to be such in the first place, and that’s where the pity ended and the disgust began – that this man had _bought a person_ , no doubt thinking it was going to be some sort of lark, and then, when he realised that it wasn’t working, just kept repeating the same actions over and over again…. No, he didn’t feel much sympathy for the man.

“Why don’t you sell her?” he asked, a touch of his emotions coming through. The other man didn’t seem to notice, too wound up in his own.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? Her reputation precedes her: unless I wanted to sell at a major loss, no one will take her. And I paid good money for her; I don’t want to just throw that away.” Stubborn too. Harry almost shook his head. Not a good combination. Options ran through his head. He sighed.

“Look, I’m willing to help you out here a bit, but you’ll have to promise me something,” he started slowly. The man looked at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Lestrange will obey me. I can give her instructions to obey you if the order is reasonable.” Greenham frowned.

“Why would she obey _you_?” he asked. “I thought only I and the Ministry have control over her collar.” Harry shrugged.

“That’s true. But I have control over her mind.” The man’s frown deepened.

“ _How_?” he asked. Harry smirked slightly.

“Bellatrix,” he started, the name not tasting as horrible in his mouth as he’d expected. “Who am I?” She lifted her head and stared at her master with a challenge in her eyes.

“You’re Master’s master,” she told him, not looking away from Greenham. Harry raised his eyebrows at the other man.

“You see my point,” he murmured with the hint of a barb. The man looked between him and Lestrange, and then finally sighed, his whole demeanour one of giving up.

“Alright, I’ll bite. What do I need to do for you to make the slave obey me?” Alright, now they were talking business.

“I want you to treat her like a person, not an object,” Harry said bluntly. “I want you to call her by her name, not some sort of demeaning pet name. If you must punish her, fine, but only when she deserves it. I want you to make sure she gets enough to eat – she’s skin and bone. I want you to make sure her mind is engaged in some sort of way, and that it’s not left to rot. In short, _Mr Greenham_ , I want you to do your best to _reform_ her, not _break_ her, as was the original purpose of this type of slavery.” He stared the man down, making sure his whole demeanour showed his utter seriousness. Bellatrix Lestrange or not, she deserved a chance at reformation, as much as anyone else. “I especially want you to refrain from requiring _anything_ sexual in nature of her unless she gives informed, uncoerced consent.” At that the man scoffed.

“What’s the point in having a slave, for Merlin’s sake, if so many activities are off the cards?” Harry shrugged.

“That’s not my problem,” he answered dismissively. “If you’re too unimaginative to think of uses for her that do not involve her being a sex doll or a punching bag, then you need to try and think more outside the box.”

“What, and am I supposed to believe that you’re not using _your_ slave for the very same things?” he accused with a sneer, leaning forwards. Harry just stared at him with a deadpan look.

“Does Tom _look_ abused to you? Does he look starved? Badly cared for? No? Then that’s because I _care_ for what is mine. As for my _uses_ of him, he’s currently researching magic which I haven’t got time to learn, in readiness to teach me. I’m also considering letting him get a Mastery, which will increase the services he has to offer me,” he explained. Greenham stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. Harry sighed.

“Look, you figure this out for yourself. But I want an oath from you that you will abide by my direction in this matter before I order her to obey you.” The man looked mulish. “Don’t forget,” Harry continued, almost idly, “that with her actions yesterday, a complaint to the Ministry would most likely lead to her being confiscated from you with no reimbursement of what you paid.” He watched the man pale again, but could see that he was still not budging. “Not to mention what would happen if I went public with her actions against me…” he trailed off leadingly. Greenham wavered, but then gave in, as Harry expected he would.

“Fine,” he bit out grudgingly. “You win. I’ll treat her like an innocent little lamb,” he spat out sarcastically.

“She could never be that,” Harry observed wryly. “Alright, I want your oath on your wand.” The man eyed him for a moment, but then withdrew his wand. Not as strong as an unbreakable vow, breaking a Wizard’s oath, otherwise known as an oath on a person’s wand, would cause the wand to break. Not only could this complicate things for the wizard, since it took time to bond to a new wand, and a second wand was never the same as the wand which chose a wizard at eleven, but it was very obvious that the oath had been broken.

A few minutes of deliberation later over the wording, the oath was sworn. Harry turned to Lestrange.

“Look at me, Bellatrix,” he said calmly, the name becoming easier every time he said it. She obeyed. “Obey John Greenham like he was Tom for the foreseeable future, OK?”

“Do I have to?” she whined, sounding like a child. Harry nodded sternly.

“Yes. Tom will be very disappointed if you don’t. So will I.” Her eyes went wide and she twisted so she was looking at Tom. The other slave had lifted his head and had fixed her with a stern glare. He didn’t say a word, but she lowered her eyes at his clear expectation of her submission to him.

“Yes, Master’s master,” she sighed, sounding put-upon, but obedient. Harry found the corner of his mouth turning up slightly, and he immediately forced it down – he was not feeling any sort of positive emotion about Bellatrix Lestrange! He _wasn’t_.

“OK, good,” he restricted himself to. “Go and kneel by master Greenham and tell him you will obey him.” With another sigh, she pushed herself to her feet, sending one last longing look at Tom, and then followed Harry’s order.

“I’ll obey you,” she muttered sulkily.

“What do you call him?” Harry asked, a note of steel in his voice.

“Master Greenham,” she added, even more sulkily quiet.

“Good,” Harry told her, and saw the slight perking up of her body language. He sighed mentally – was this the right thing to do? Leave her with this smarmy man-child? All she really needed was someone to take her properly in hand, give her the praise and acceptance she was clearly longing for, along with a good bit of discipline. But he couldn’t do that for her, not with the history between them. Well, too late now, he supposed. He did, however, make a mental note to check up on her occasionally. Wanting to leave the situation, he stood up, Tom gracefully following suit, his head once more bowed submissively.

“Alright, we’d best be off.” Greenham looked at him as if he wasn’t sure whether to say ‘thank you’ or ‘bugger off’. Harry didn’t give him the time to decide. “If you have any trouble with her, feel free to send an owl,” Harry continued with a cheerful note to his voice. “We’ll drop around occasionally to see how you’re getting on.” On that vaguely ominous note, he turned on his heel and headed towards the door. “Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves out,” he threw over his shoulder, despite not hearing any signs of movement behind them.

Exiting by the door, Harry apparated them away as soon as he could, landing on his doorstep.

“Merlin,” he sighed. “At least _that’s_ over,” he said gratefully. Tom was looking at him oddly. “What?”

“You went above and beyond there, master,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t expecting you to take such concern in her treatment.” Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

“She’s human, isn’t she?” he responded quietly, opening the front door and stepping into the hallway. “Whatever she’s done…she doesn’t deserve abuse for the next three decades, does she?” Tom just looked at him steadily for a moment and then bowed his head.

“You put me to shame, master,” he said finally, cryptically. “Thank you for taking my guilt from me.” Harry shrugged again.

“That’s my job, isn’t it?” he responded, almost uncertainly. Tom just gave him an enigmatic look and moved in close to Harry, asking wordlessly for a kiss. Happily obliging, Harry let the fierce surge of his emotions for Tom sweep away the faint feeling of griminess caused by the discussion with Greenham and make him feel right with himself once more.

XXX

“Tom,” Harry called from the top of the stairs to the potions laboratory. Tom startled a bit – it was early for him to be home. He hoped that Harry wouldn’t be angry the food wasn’t ready – he had been planning to finish preparing the ingredients and then go and cook.

“Yes, master?” he called back, quickly completing his task with deft hands, then packing the eyes he was slicing into an appropriate container.

“Can you come up here, please,” his master instructed. Well, he didn’t _sound_ angry, at least. Or disappointed. In fact, there was a note in his voice which could be…excitement? Curious to find out what his master had planned, Tom nonetheless hesitated, eyeing his messy hands and the equally messy knife and workstation.

“Right now? Or can I clean up first?” he checked, knowing that Harry wouldn’t mind the question when his tone hadn’t been conveying any real sense of urgency.

“Clean up first and then meet me in the kitchen.” At that, Tom heard the sound of footsteps moving away. He quickly cleaned the board and knife in the sink (by hand, since many potions ingredients reacted badly to magic) and then scrubbed at his own hands until the last traces of blood and other remnants had disappeared. Checking that everything was tidy and put away, he hurried out of the lab and headed towards the kitchen.

Almost there, he slowed as he caught the scent of something cooking. He frowned – was Harry cooking? Of course, he didn’t need to tell his slave his plans, but he hadn’t mentioned a word that morning about Tom not cooking. Immediately, his mind went to the meal he had had planned and he hoped that the meat he had taken out wouldn’t spoil overnight. Well, he could put a stasis charm on it, he supposed. He would do it on all the food, but multiple charms in the same area increased the power drainage by an exponential curve according to the laws of indices. Although, perhaps he could use runes to enchant a cupboard. Hmm… Tom added it to the mental list of things he wanted to research and experiment with. Since his master had essentially told him that he wanted his slave to continue learning and improving, more and more ideas had started coming to him.

Still, that wasn’t the immediate focus – the immediate focus was his master who was sitting in his normal chair, a single place laid, a single plate of food on the table, though one that was piled high with several different edibles. As he walked towards his master to kneel at his feet, he noticed fingers of carrot and cucumber, small pastries he had bought at the shop that week, chunks of cheese, a few grapes, rolls of ham, and a small selection of tasty looking bread products which were cut or broken into bite-size pieces. As he moved gracefully to kneel, hope leapt in his chest.

After the conversation in Parseltongue during Harry’s graduation, Tom had rather expected Harry to want to hand feed him that same evening, or at least some point not long after. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been imagining the eagerness in his tone either when they had discussed it a while back, or at Harry’s graduation when he’d asked for it. But no – Harry hadn’t broached the topic, hadn’t ordered him to his knees during a dinner or anything of the sort. It had been…disappointing. And then he had been disappointed with himself because Harry was right – it was at his pleasure, or not at all.

He had felt mixed feelings at Harry’s refusal at the graduation – relief in some ways because he honestly _didn’t_ want to submit in public; disappointment because Harry hadn’t _wanted_ to show him off. But then there was also pleasure at the very fact that Harry didn’t want their relationship to be public and at the same time worry that he might have upset his master just by asking: although he had used Parseltongue to conceal the nature of the conversation, knowing that that wouldn’t be appreciated, his use of the language had instead caused a problem of another sort.

Harry hadn’t told him off for his behaviour, or done anything to punish him for it, so Tom had done his best to acknowledge what Harry had told him before – that if he wasn’t being punished, it was because he hadn’t done anything Harry deemed worthy of being punished. It had been hard, and he’d had to beat back the feelings of guilt with the knowledge that if, by feeling guilt which his master deemed unnecessary, he punished himself, even if it was only with sleepless nights, Harry wouldn’t be pleased. He had given himself over to Master – let him make the decisions as he had promised he would.

In the end, he’d stopped dwelling on those thoughts, his mind turning to other matters, both mundane and exciting. One of the exciting ones had been his research on the Animagus potion. He felt he was ready to start brewing, and he had been preparing the ingredients which could be pre-prepared ready for the next day before Harry called. He was rather curious to know his form and knew that Harry was too. Actually, he was just as curious as Harry to know his master’s form – there were many animals which seemed like they could fit, but none seemed…right. Still, he suspected that Harry would defy expectations once again, as he usually did.

So, when Harry asked him to make sure that some pre-made finger food was on his shopping list for next week, sometime after the graduation, he had been confused at first. He’d wondered if his master was planning a party and got a number of fancy, but tasty hors d’oeuvres, hoping that that was what Harry had intended. It was only when he’d shown his master the boxes of frozen food and Harry had given a satisfied little smile that Tom had started to wonder… And now it had arrived.

“Close your eyes,” Harry instructed quietly, his voice full of the self-assurance that he would be obeyed, regardless of how loudly or softly he spoke. And he was right – Tom would obey even a whisper from his lips, or an unspoken order made with his eyes or hands. So he did. He closed his eyes and marvelled at how his other senses leaped to compensate for his temporary blindness. “Put your hands behind your back; hold your forearms.” He obeyed, the words of his master binding him in place more surely than ropes or chains, though he idly wondered what it would feel like to have physical representations of his master’s orders keeping him from moving. He felt that calmness, that peace start to envelop his mind, the beginnings of something which could take him to a place where nothing mattered but Master and everything was wonderful.

“Open your mouth.” The softly growled order made a shiver run through him and he complied without hesitation. There were no restraints keeping him there, only his desire to obey his master. He would be good. He trusted his master, and knew that Master would never feed him something which wasn’t good for him. A shadow passed over his eyelids and he almost flinched in reaction, but he didn’t because he was with Master. He was safe.

He felt the hand which hovered close to his face by the heat radiating off it, and by the soapy smell of Master’s skin mingled with the sharp scent of cheese. He moved forward to take the item of food with his mouth, but froze at the small sound of disapproval from his master. “What do you say?” Master asked a moment later, before the crushing guilt at having been displeasing could rise within him.

“Please, Master,” Tom tried, hoping that that was correct.

“Good boy,” Master replied, his voice warm and approving. Tom felt pleasure burst within him like the sun had suddenly taken up residence in his chest. He was nearly too distracted by his enjoyment of his master’s words of praise that he almost didn’t notice the hand moving closer to him. Almost. When it touched his lips, he gently felt with them until he found the hard chunk of cheese held between thumb and forefinger. Just as gently, he took the item of food and moved it into his mouth where he chewed it. Cheese had never tasted so good, nor had it held so much flavour before that day. Blind and with no other distractions, his whole mind was in that moment, feeling the texture, savouring the taste, even hearing the sound of his teeth clicking together as he chewed. Swallowing was again a study of movement, his complete focus in the moment allowing him to notice all the muscles which he used so automatically, but which worked so perfectly in concert to transport his food from his mouth to his stomach.

“Thank you,” he said when he had finished, thanking his master for more than just the food.

“Good boy,” Master repeated, his tone pleased. Once more the sun burned in Tom’s chest and when he felt a gentle caress of his cheek by his master’s warm finger, he couldn’t help but to lean into the touch, drawn like a moth to a flame. When the hand was removed, he almost mourned it. And then it returned, once more bearing another item of food. Knowing what to do now, Tom asked permission first, and, having been given it, mouthed at the item once more.

This time it was a grape. He marvelled at the cool smoothness to the outside, the faint hint of sweetness at one end where the stalk had been torn carelessly away, revealing a hint of the flesh within. Biting down, he almost moaned as the flavour exploded inside his mouth, the sweet, cool liquid flooding the space between his teeth, rolling over his tongue and making his taste-buds sing. He chewed at the skin, observing the different texture and faint bitterness to it in comparison to the sugariness of the contents it had previously enveloped. Swallowing once more, he thanked his master and received another caress, this time to his hair.

And so it continued. He enjoyed the crunchy sweetness of the carrot, the refreshing juiciness of the cucumber, the crunch and complex warm flavours of the different types of baked pastry, the alternating softness and crunch of the bread bites, the meatiness of the ham, and, as before, the tanginess of the cheese and sweetness of the grape. Each bite was a new discovery of taste, texture, sound, and smell. All of them were foods he had eaten before, many times for some of them, but it was like he was discovering them anew.

From intermittent crunching sounds, he could have guessed that his master was also eating, feasting on the same items he was being fed. But he didn’t, because his mind had gone to that place where every moment was vast, where it felt like he was flying without a broomstick, where Master was the centre of his universe and also the boundary that contained it. Here, his mind was calm from its constant activity; even in sleep, it was busy. But here, it slowed and stopped, the only thoughts passing through his mind those of pleasure as he pleased his master, and of gratitude.

It took Tom a few moments to realise that nothing had been held to his lips for a while. It didn’t matter – only what Master said mattered, mattered – but a hint of curiosity went through him as the thought registered. He heard some sounds, but his mind wasn’t in the right place to process them as Master tidying up, so he just knelt there patiently, waiting for his next instruction.

It came soon enough, seconds, minutes, hours later. A hand covered his eyes. He didn’t move, didn’t twitch.

“Open your eyes,” Master ordered softly. He obeyed immediately, seeing the palm of his master’s hand across his eyes and nothing else. Slowly, very slowly, Master moved his hand, letting in more and more light until Tom was blinking in the bright candlelight of the kitchen. His master moved forwards and cupped his chin in both hands, looking deeply into his eyes. “Merlin, you’re gone,” he murmured in a wondering tone. It wasn’t an order so Tom listened and then put it aside for later. “Release your arms and put your hands on your knees,” Master commanded a moment later, that hint of steel which left obedience the only option back in his voice. Tom obeyed. “Good boy.” That praise never failed to make him feel even better than he had the moment before, even when he didn’t think it could be possible.

Master stood quickly and stood in front of Tom, his hands out. Tom blinked at them uncomprehendingly. “Use my arms as support to get to your feet,” his master told him, clarifying. Tom blinked up at his master, hoping that the man could see the gratitude in his eyes which he was currently incapable of putting into words. Reaching forward, he gripped those strong arms and, as instructed, tried to get to his feet.

He was abruptly glad that Master had given him the support – his legs were stiff from kneeling for so long (minutes, hours, days?) and threatened not to bear his weight. Nonetheless, a few moments later, he felt he was able to trust them and released his master’s hold. Master praised him once more and then gave him another command. Following it, he once more placed his hands behind his back, gripping his forearms near their elbows, and then he stepped after his master as the man left the room.

They headed to the sitting room and Master sat on the couch. He patted the seat next to him.

“Come, my Tom. Lie here with your head in my lap,” he instructed. Almost stumbling, Tom hurried to obey. He hesitated for a moment with one knee on the couch, his arms still clasped behind his back. He wasn’t sure how to manage the descent and looked to his master for help. “Release your arms,” Master instructed, a beat later and Tom did so, thankful that the path forwards was clear for him, his thoughts so syrupy in this space.

A moment later, he was lying on the couch, his head in his master’s lap, his nostrils full of the smell of his master, as his head absorbed the man’s heat. A blanket from somewhere was flicked over him, settling evenly along his body, and tucking over his shoulders. “Close your eyes, my Tom,” Master told him gently. His eyes shut in an instant. “Relax, enjoy, and then come back to me when you’re ready.” Come back? He hadn’t gone anywhere; at least, he didn’t think he had. Nevertheless, he obeyed, allowing his mind to relax, his consciousness drifting back and forth with the air currents inside his mind, the feeling of contentment and love filling him until it felt like his own skin wasn’t enough to contain it.

Later, much later, when he had finally drifted back down to Earth, he would open his eyes and look up at his master, at his Harry with such deep feeling that Harry was almost taken aback. He would breathe out his joy and his gratitude in words that would be insufficient for the occasion, but that expressed it a little, at least. He would be met with equally insufficient words conveying his master’s own enjoyment and contentment with his trusting submission. They would go to bed and make sweet love to each other before falling into the sleep of the drained, the high emotions of the evening too much for a simple human body to contain.

But that would be later. For now, Tom allowed himself to drift, knowing it for his master’s order and desire, and knowing that in this moment, in this place, he had nothing to fear; not even himself.

XXX

Two slow stirs counterclockwise while sprinkling in a pinch of powdered moonstone. Pause for a beat, and then add in a clockwise stir to ensure the powder was perfectly combined. The potion should turn a shade of lavender with an iridescent sheen…perfect.

“Tom?” His master’s voice made him startle slightly, but he couldn’t turn around to acknowledge him at this stage – if he stopped paying attention at this critical junction, the whole potion could blow up in his face.

“In here,” he called absently, focusing mainly on adding the next ingredient, watching to make sure the potion shifted from lavender to a deeper mauve. Almost there. He was aware of footsteps entering the room, but was thankful when Harry didn’t say anything or demand his attention in any way. There. The right shade was achieved. He quickly killed the flames underneath the cauldron, holding his breath as one, two, three bubbles rose to the surface. When no more appeared, he slowly let the air escape his lungs in an almost silent sigh. Taking four single ounce containers, he filled them one at a time, scooping the usable potion off the top of the cauldron. Seeing a little liquid left, he eventually decided that it wasn’t enough for an extra dose. Vanishing the rest of the contents of the cauldron, he set the vials onto the surface next to him. Then, turning, he acknowledged his master’s presence by going to his knees. “Master,” he greeted, meeting those emerald eyes.

“Making a potion?” Harry asked curiously. Tom found a slightly excited smile curling the corners of his mouth.

“Animagus potion,” he responded, seeing a similar excitement start gleaming in Harry’s eyes.

“You mean…?” his master asked eagerly. Tom nodded, the slight smile turning into a full-blown one.

“Yes. We just need to wait for it to cool down and then we can each take a dose and see what our animal forms are.”

“Excellent,” Harry told him. Tom wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started rubbing his hands with glee: he looked that excited.

“But in the meantime, we might as well eat dinner,” Tom told him, pushing himself to his feet. Harry gave him a strange look.

“How did you have time to cook at the same time as make a potion?” Tom waved a hand.

“I cooked earlier and put it under a stasis charm. Having magic at my fingertips once more gives me a _lot_ more flexibility,” he told his master easily. Harry raised his eyebrows and then chuckled shortly.

“I see that. Alright, let’s have supper first. Is it OK to take the potion on a full stomach?” he checked suddenly as they started walking up the stairs. Tom hesitated for a moment, running the information he’d gathered through his mind again.

“It should be,” he replied thoughtfully a few moments later. “There were warnings about not taking it within a certain period of other potions, but as long as you haven’t done that…?” he trailed off, looking expectantly at his master who shook his head. “Then it should be fine,” he concluded. Harry shrugged.

“You’re the one who did the research. If you say it’s safe, I’ll trust you.” Biting his lip, Tom was suddenly assailed by doubt. What if it _did_ cause a problem? What if he’d overlooked something important? He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn’t realise he was in the kitchen until Harry cleared his throat loudly. Tom’s eyes flew to his amused expression and then to their surroundings.

“I’m sorry, master,” Tom said, rubbing his forehead. “I was…”

“Worrying,” Harry completed his thought for him. Tom nodded and then turned to get the plates of food, passing one over to his master and then sitting down with his own. “Most likely needlessly,” Harry continued. Tom sighed.

“But what if I didn’t see something important?” Harry leaned forward, his expression serious.

“Do you think you didn’t do enough research?” he asked, pinning Tom with a look. Tom considered it.

“No,” he admitted. “I did a lot of research on both the potion and the process itself before even beginning to look at the brewing process.” Harry leaned back in his seat, a satisfied look on his face.

“Then it’ll be fine. If it’s not, then we may have to go to St Mungo’s, but I’m sure there won’t be a problem. Now stop worrying and eat your dinner,” he ordered, the affection in his voice taking the edge off, but not making it appear as anything less than a command. And so, commanded by his beloved master, Tom complied.

Forcibly keeping his thoughts about the animagus potion at bay opened his mind to other thoughts which had been percolating in his mind ever since the last campaign group meeting and then the subsequent visit by Bella. They’d actually visited her once since, and Greenham seemed to be complying with his new restrictions; at least for now. Bella was calmer too, now that she knew that she was where her lord wanted her. In short, it had assuaged at least some of his worries for the short term at least. Whether it could last for the long term remained to be seen.

However, the whole experience had taught him something about himself, and now he felt he had finally come to a decision, he thought it would be a good time to tell his master about it.

“Master?” he started, a little hesitantly since Harry seemed to be deep in his enjoyment of the food, and Tom didn’t really want to interrupt that.

“Hmm?” Harry hummed in response, casting Tom a quick glance before returning to his food.

“You know that suggestion about me running the halfway house for former slaves to find their feet?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, looking up from his food with his eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you make a decision about that?”

“I think so,” Tom said slowly. “If you wish me to run it, master, then of course I will follow your command. But if I can choose…I’d rather not take on the responsibility of it all.”

“It’s your choice, Tom,” Harry answered, his tone neutral. “I said that at the beginning, and I maintain it now. I’m not going to order you either way. But I do think that you need _some_ kind of project, something to work towards.” Tom nodded.

“I know,” he acknowledged. Because Harry was right – the animagus project would keep him occupied for a while, but it wasn’t the same as having some sort of greater aim to work towards. Of course, his ultimate greater aim was in being a good slave for his master, and somehow working towards paying off his debt to Harry, but…in day to day life, he _did_ feel like he needed something else to occupy him. Especially if Harry was going to be out most of the day for the foreseeable future, which seemed highly likely. “And I’m not saying I don’t want to be involved at all, but I don’t want to be _in charge_ of it.” Harry looked at him with sharp eyes for a moment and then leaned back in his seat, distracted from his meal.

“Explain,” he demanded a moment later. Tom obliged.

“I realised with Bella that…it was such a relief to give the decision of what to do with her over to you,” he offered, keeping his eyes on his master’s emerald gaze to emphasise his sincerity. “I wanted to do something for her, but I recognised that all the ideas I had for improving her lot were ones that would help her at the expense of hurting others. The guilt within me, the fear of making the wrong move, made it very difficult to see a way of compromising. If I’d been in charge, I would have made a decision and then probably have worried that it was the wrong one. But I didn’t have to, because you’re my master; because ultimately it was your decision anyway. Because I’m a slave, I _couldn’t_ make the decision without your approval, your agreement. And that was an immense relief,” he finished in a rush, the memory of the release of guilt he had felt suffusing him with peace once more. After a moment, he returned his gaze to Harry’s noting the glint of understanding in those emerald orbs.

“I think I understand,” Harry offered quietly. “You don’t want to be ultimately responsible for what happens to others.” Tom nodded.

“In summary, yes,” he admitted. “I don’t want to bear that burden now I don’t _have_ to. I don’t want to even bear it for myself – that is the purpose of me swearing myself to you. But that’s not to say I don’t want to be involved at all, as I said.”

“So what do you want to do, if not manage it?” asked Harry, no hint of judgment or disapproval in his voice, no matter how much Tom searched for it. In the end, he just shrugged.

“I don’t really know. Perhaps I could work as a healer.”

“A healer?” Harry echoed. “What kind of healer? A mind healer like what you did with Draco?” Tom shrugged again.

“I suppose, if that’s what the person needed. Or maybe something else.” He sighed. “I do want to do _something_ to help,” he continued, “but not under my own direction.” Harry nodded slowly.

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind,” he said finally, thoughtfully. “Things are still in their early stages, but knowing that I’ll be looking for a manager is helpful.” He looked back up at Tom. “Thanks for telling me.” Tom half-smiled at him, feeling relief that Harry wasn’t going to force him into the role running through him. He hadn’t seriously thought that Harry would, but he’d felt some guilt that he might be letting his master down. Nothing in Harry’s reaction had indicated that he was at all disappointed in Tom’s decision, however, which was good to know.

The discussion over, they both applied themselves to their food with renewed appetite.

XXX

“So, what now?” asked Harry, almost bouncing in place with his excitement. They were in the ballroom, the biggest room in the house. Harry had questioned whether it was necessary but Tom had just shrugged, reminding him that neither of them knew what their forms might be, nor how _big_ they might be. Tom smiled at him indulgently, just how someone might look at a child who was endearing in their joy at some sort of treat.

“Now we take the potions. It’s probably a good idea to do it separately. For one thing, if something goes wrong, that leaves one person in human form who can do something to help. For another, if one of us has a prey animal and the other a predator, it…might not end well.” Harry grimaced at the thought. Though, he did wonder how his father and Sirius had dealt with it – after all, deer were prey while dogs (and wolves) were most certainly predators.

“Alright. So, who’s first?” Harry asked. “Maybe it should be me because if something goes wrong, you’re more likely to know what the hell to do.” Tom shook his head.

“No, master. If I made a mistake on the potion, I’d much rather _I_ suffered the effects than _you_ did.” Harry levelled him with a _look_.

“How likely is it that that happened?” he asked pointedly. Tom shrugged unrepentantly.

“Slim, but it’s a complex potion so not zero either.” Harry considered it carefully, weighing up the pros and cons. In the end, he decided that his curiosity to see Tom’s form outweighed his own curiosity. As for the making a mistake element, he’d discounted that almost immediately, knowing how anal Tom could be – and _would be_ when it came to something like this.

“Alright, you go first.” Tom nodded, his expression relieved. He took one of the vials from the table where he’d put them when he’d walked in earlier and quickly uncorked it. Throwing the purple liquid back, he grimaced slightly at the taste. He’d only just had time to set the empty vial down when he suddenly hunched over, grunting in discomfort. The transformation took longer than it had the few times Harry had seen either Sirius or Minerva change, but not _much_ longer.

Black hair sprouted, arms lengthened and legs shortened. Tom’s body changed shape significantly, as did his head, becoming equipped with a rather sharp set of white fangs. A long, thick tail sprouted and started lashing back and forth behind Tom. A moment later, it was completed.

“Tom?” Harry asked tentatively, not approaching him. His slave had warned him that on some recorded instances of the potion being used the animal instincts had been slightly disorienting. Given that he was now in the presence of a definite killing machine, he didn’t want to risk tripping any of those particular instincts. “Nod your head if you are in control.” The massive cat dipped his head a moment later and Harry let a slightly shaky sigh of relief escape his lips. It was one thing to consider the possibility of one or both of them turning into a predator; it was a lot difficult to face the reality.

Tom moved over to Harry slowly but sinuously, his very gait speaking as much of his predator nature as the sharp canines in his mouth. He butted Harry’s knees gently, letting out a strange sound. Somewhere between a chuff and sounding like he’d said ‘ow’, Harry relaxed as the non-threatening nature to it became very clear. He lowered his hands to Tom’s head and started stroking it, scratching behind his ears.

Tom’s black fur was silky smooth, but this close, Harry could see it wasn’t completely black – in fact, he could see lots of smaller, blacker marks below the initial layer of darkness. Thoughtfully, he catalogued what he could see. A long body, but one with fairly powerful shoulders. A long tail. Rounded ears and pupils that were just as round as in Tom’s human shape – in fact, his eyes basically hadn’t changed as their colour was the same red as before, though there was no white surrounding it. A fairly compact muzzle with very prominent canines on the upper and lower jaw.

Moving down, Harry traced his hand down Tom’s leg, not quite able to forget the skull-crushing teeth which were very near his head. Slim, powerful legs, with fairly big paws. At Harry’s urging, Tom lifted one paw and extended his claws, retracting them a moment later. Harry stood up, his eyes wide at the length and sharpness of the weapons hidden within those pads.

Taking Harry’s movement as permission to also move, Tom started testing out his body, running to the other side of the ballroom, jumping, twisting in mid-air. He even jumped on one of the tables, though leaped off it a moment later when it creaked under his weight. In every movement he was graceful and sinuous. Although Harry had been initially surprised that he hadn’t been a snake of some sort, he had to admit that this form suited Tom perfectly. It wasn’t just that Harry had almost made comparisons between Tom and a cat before with his tendency to cuddle up to Harry’s legs and to almost purr under Harry’s caressing hand, and his enjoyment of the warmth of the fire on his skin. It was also that the movement he saw here was exactly what he had admired multiple times when watching Tom in motion during a fight – graceful power and sinuous threat.

Five minutes after Tom had drunk the potion, he stopped and hunched in place once more, the transformation happening in reverse. Tom hurried back to Harry from where he had transformed, his eyes bright.

“Did you see that, Harry?” Tom exclaimed. “Did you see what I turned into?” Harry wondered whether he should make some kind of sarcastic quip, but decided that it would be a bit mean to do so – he had _never_ seen Tom quite as excited as this.

“Some kind of cat?” he guessed instead, a smile tugging at his lips at Tom’s obvious pleasure.

“A leopard,” Tom responded, nodding. He was starting to get his excitement under control which saddened Harry a little – it had been fun to see him like that.

“I didn’t realise that leopards were black,” Harry asked with a frown, the thought occurring to him. Tom waved an impatient hand.

“Certain members of the panthera genus can be born with the right kind of combination of alleles which produce more of the dark pigment melanin than the more common members of the species. In short, my animagus form is a _black_ leopard, but a leopard nonetheless.” He still looked very pleased with himself.

“You didn’t want to be a snake?” Harry asked curiously. Tom shrugged.

“I certainly wouldn’t have _minded_ , but I’m very happy with this form, so…” he shrugged again. “Now, your turn.” He went to get one of the other vials from the table, but before he handed it over, he pinned Harry with his ‘teaching’ look. “Remember, you only have five minutes, so try to memorise how it feels to be in the body. The more you can visualise how it feels to move, to lie down, to run, to stretch, to jump, and the rest, the easier it will be to actually transform.”

“I know, Tom,” Harry said, somewhat impatiently. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard this. “I remember you saying that the main advantage of this method over the meditation one was that the potion gives a head start in actually being able to visualise the animal, and to _feel_ myself into the body.” Tom nodded.

“Exactly.” So saying, he gave the vial to Harry and then took a few cautious steps back. Harry uncorked it as Tom had done a few minutes earlier, and following his slave’s example, quickly downed it. Now he knew why Tom had grimaced – it tasted like some mixture between animalistic musk and dead things. Still, at least the taste faded quickly.

A moment later, his body started changing. It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it was certainly not comfortable feeling his bones shifting and changing under his skin, his flesh expanding. New appendages pushed out of his back and his teeth shifted in his mouth. His spine lengthened and he could suddenly sense more than ever before. At some point he’d closed his eyes during the process, and when it finally finished, he opened them.

The first thing he noted was that the room was significantly smaller than it had been. He was still standing up, no, he was _sitting_ on his hindquarters… He moved his head to see himself and found it a lot easier to crane his neck than ever before. In fact, he could actually move his head down to the level of his belly with little difficulty. He caught sight of Tom, who looked remarkably small, and suddenly felt a flash of _hunger_ go through him. It was easy enough to control, fortunately, but still, it told Harry that he was most likely a predator as well.

Focussing on Tom’s face, he was disorientated as his vision seemed to zoom in, seeing details even at the distance of a few metres that he would usually only see when lying in bed with their faces only a few inches apart after a kiss. When he did manage to actually _see_ Tom’s expression, his heart sank. His slave looked surprised. No, he looked _flabbergasted_. And if Tom looked like that, it meant that, once again, Harry had done something _freakish_. Wondering if he really wanted to know, he looked into the mirror on one wall of the ballroom and let out a groan that trumpeted around the large room.

He was a freaking _dragon_.

A _dragon_.

Why couldn’t he have been something _normal_ for Merlin’s sake? Just for once? Heaving out a sigh which, he realised with some dismay, came out tinged with smoke, he resigned himself to never being normal. So, aware of the limited time span he had, he started testing out his body.

The first things were his limbs. His arms felt pretty similar to how they had before. The main difference was that he didn’t have a thumb anymore, and only four fingers tipped with very sharp claws. However, apart from them being a little more restricted in movement – there was no way he could wield a wand like this – they were fairly similar. His legs were a bit more different, but apart from seemingly standing on his toes with his heel halfway up his leg, they moved fairly similarly too. Like his hands…forepaws, they ended in four big clawed toes, the claws wickedly sharp and at least a hand’s breadth in length. In fact, they were digging into the wooden floor of the ballroom and creating gouges which made Harr y wince and then shrug.

Harry tilted forwards so he was standing on all fours and immediately knew that this breed of dragon was _not_ meant for walking or running for long distances. The difference in length between his forepaws and backpaws just made it awkward to do more than hop forwards a few times. His tail was also somewhat awkward, obviously trying to balance him, but Harry’s inexperience in controlling it almost sent him tumbling one way or the other a few times. Figuring he’d concentrated enough on that, Harry decided to try out something which actually did make him excited – his wings.

Besides, he told himself, the wings were the weirdest part of this, so he needed to spend time _feeling_ them. Stretching them out, he realised that they must be about thirty feet wide, probably double his length, if what he was seeing in the mirror were the correct proportions. He beat them gently once, twice, and could immediately feel lift building and making him light on his feet. For a moment, he wistfully wished that they were outside so he could actually try flying. Then he reminded himself that with less than five minutes to go, it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway…

Turning, he got a side view of himself and had to admit that he looked rather handsome. Very different from the Hungarian Horntail he’d faced in his Fourth year, he was much smaller, and more lithe, slender and graceful. His head was more reminiscent of a snake’s head than a dragon’s, and when he opened his mouth, he saw two long fangs that he was pretty sure were venomous. In fact, it was rather reminiscent of the basilisk he’d faced in his second year… shuddering a little at that, he turned his attention to the rest of his body.

It wasn’t surprising that he’d been able to crane his neck so easily – his neck had to be about five feet long, his body about six, and his tail tapering away for the final five. He had short spikes along the length of his spine and his scales were a coppery colour.

In the little time that remained, he paid some attention to his senses. As he’d noted before, his vision was more focused, and he was glad that his bad eyesight in his human form hadn’t carried over into his animagus. With interest, he noted that his eyes were green, the colour transferring just as Tom’s had, although he did have slit pupils. His sense of smell, however, seemed to be a little muted. That was until Harry, following a nudge of instinct, flicked his tongue out. It ‘tasted’ the air like a snake and he was suddenly hit by a range of feelings that he didn’t have names for. In fact…he tried it again. Yes. He was ‘tasting’ the warmth in the air. He could have identified where Tom was just based on that. His sense of hearing didn’t seem to have changed much, though he was aware of some whining sounds and some deeper throbbing which may indicate that his _range_ of hearing had increased. Adding in the additional sensations he was getting from his three extra limbs and Harry was rapidly becoming overwhelmed.

It was with a mixture of relief and sadness that he felt the shifting under his skin that signalled the shift back to human.

XXX

Tom was staring. He knew it. He couldn’t help it. His master had just turned into a _dragon_. He doubted that Harry knew the implications of that. Very few people turned into magical creatures. Very few. It required a depth of magic which was not usually seen. Tom hadn’t been expecting to turn into a magical animal, and he hadn’t; that he hadn’t and Harry _had_ was an indication of something that he had suspected for a while now – that once he had finished his maturities, Harry would be significantly more powerful than Tom had ever been, or ever would.

Harry made a handsome dragon, Tom thought, the part of his mind that wasn’t exclaiming over the fact that one of only a handful of recorded wizards capable of achieving a magical animagus was _his master_ , actually observing the kind of dragon Harry was. Copper scales that shone in the light from the chandeliers, sharp dangerous-looking fangs, a small (for a dragon – Harry was only about sixteen feet long and probably weighed as much as a smallish muggle car), lithe body, clearly meant for speed and agility in the air, and wickedly sharp claws. A Peruvian Vipertooth, if he didn’t miss his guess. Made sense, he supposed.

Tom spent the time until Harry’s reversal to human form cataloguing what he looked like, impressing it in his memory so he might be able to help his master later. When Harry did look human once more, Tom noticed a rather grumpy expression on his face.

“Master?” Tom asked warily. Had something gone wrong? “Is there a problem?”

“My damnable luck, that’s the problem,” Harry snapped at him, though it didn’t seem like the anger was actually _directed_ at him. Tom frowned.

“What do you mean? Don’t you like that you’re a dragon? Very few magicals achieve a magical form – that you have-“ Harry interrupted him.

“That I have just makes me _more_ of a freak, I know,” he grumped. Tom’s frown deepened.

“No, it makes you _powerful_ ,” he corrected. Harry huffed and looked away.

“Do you not feel that the form suits you?” Tom asked quietly. Harry looked at him challengingly.

“Well, do _you_ think it suits me?” Tom had had a bit of time to think about it, and had a ready answer on his tongue.

“Yes,” he said honestly. Harry seemed a little taken aback at his prompt reply.

“Why?” he asked, his tone losing some of its anger.

“Think about it, master. You love flying – the Peruvian Vipertooth is the most agile and fastest of all the dragon breeds. You’re protective – so are dragons. You are stubborn and determined – so are dragons: it’s been known for a dragon to pursue one human who has threatened their nest for _years_. And,” he added, with a hint of mischief in his tone, “you get grumpy when your sleep is disturbed.” Harry scoffed at the last, but he seemed to be thinking about the others.

“I mean, the idea of being able to fly…” he started wistfully. “But what’s the use of a bloody great dragon?!” he suddenly demanded, the grumpiness returning. Tom frowned again.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, think about it. Your form’s pretty good for sneaking around in the dark. Sirius’ was good at blending in with other dogs and in cities. Wormtail’s, as much as I hate to say _anything_ positive about that man, was rather suited to his purpose of being a spy. Minerva’s is also good at sneaking around unobserved. A bloody great dragon isn’t going to be able to go _anywhere_ without drawing attention. Not to mention the fact that I’ll never be able to go out in an area where a muggle might see me.” Tom nodded slowly.

“I understand your perspective from the point of spying, but think about what dragons are very good at. There will be very few enemies who you will be vulnerable against when you can turn into a creature whose hide is usually part of duelling-grade robes because of its resistance to magic. You can breathe fire, and your fangs will be highly venomous. You’re a one man army, in fact.” Harry sighed and suddenly looked very vulnerable. Tom felt a sudden urge to go and pull him into an embrace.

“Yes, but can’t I be something _more_ than just destruction?” he asked almost plaintively. Tom gave into the urge, only hesitating a moment with his hands outstretched before Harry swayed towards him and he closed his grip.

“Master, you’re a lot more than destruction. You don’t have to use your form to destroy. You can use it to protect, to guard. Merlin, you could just use it to _fly_ with, if you wanted,” he chuckled a little, kissing Harry’s forehead. “Your form is an expression of you, just as is your magic. Do with it what you want, what you feel is right.” Harry gave a shaky sounding chuckled and then breathed in a deep breath and pulled back. Tom released him immediately and took a half-step backwards so he wasn’t standing almost on top of his master.

“Thanks Tom,” Harry said quietly. Tom gave him a warm half-smile.

“Anytime, Harry,” he responded. There was a silence for a few moments and a new frown crept onto Harry’s face. Tom felt like sighing. What now?

“Do you think the basilisk biting me in Second year could have influenced my form?” Harry asked thoughtfully. Now it was Tom’s turn to frown.

“Why do you say that?” Harry shrugged.

“Just the shape of my head in that form. It was rather reminiscent… And the fangs that I had. They looked pretty identical, down to the faint yellowish tinge of venom.” Tom brought the memory of looking at Harry to the forefront of his mind.

“It’s possible,” he replied slowly, noting for himself the similarities between them. Harry’s head in dragon form _had_ been very similar to that of the basilisk – narrow, full of sharp teeth, though with two most prominent, and a crest rising at the back of his head. Of course, the basilisk’s crest had been feathered, and Harry’s had been more of a small collection of horns pointing backwards to protect the vulnerable point at the base of his head, but…. “It’s probably worth us testing your venom, when you’re able to transform properly. Peruvian Vipertooth venom is rather potent, but it isn’t the same strength of a basilisk’s, and it acts differently. It will be interesting to see which type your venom is most similar to.”

“Then might that be the reason I had that form? Rather than because I’m some sort of very powerful wizard?” Harry asked, a strange note of desperation in his voice. Tom’s frown deepened.

“I doubt it,” he said bluntly. “If you didn’t have the power, but were still influenced by the basilisk, you’d have probably turned into a non-magical snake.” Harry seemed to deflate. “Why are you so reticent to accept this?” Tom asked with some confusion. He’d never not _wanted_ to have power until recently, although as an adult, he could see how having it as a child had rather gone to his head. Harry shrugged, looking miserable. “Harry?” Tom asked, pushing a bit, but hopefully not too much. Harry sighed and looked away.

“I hate that they still influence me but… being out of the ordinary at the Dursleys brought me nothing but pain. Being out of the ordinary at Hogwarts made the school population hate me at some times as much as it made them love me at others. I…” he heaved a deep sigh once more. “I sometimes wish I could just be _normal_. And then something like this happens, and I’m reminded that I really am _not_.” Tom considered his master’s words for a few moments and then the corner of his mouth kicked up. He reached out and stroked Harry’s cheek the way he had done so often to Tom until his master looked up.

“Fuck. Normal,” Tom said very deliberately. “Do you think I would have offered my submission to you if you were _normal_?” he snorted. “Do you think your campaign group would follow you if you were _normal_? Do you think the Minister would have asked for advice from you if you were _normal_? Do you think you would have won the war _if you were normal_?” He paused for a moment, staring deeply into Harry’s eyes. “Own it, my beloved master. You’re not normal, and never will be. But neither _should_ you be. You were born for greatness. Own it.”

Harry looked almost angry for a moment, like Tom’s clear statement had hit him to the core, and Tom wondered if he’d gone too far. He slid to his knees, looking up at Harry. “Punish me for my words, master, if they upset you, but you cannot deny their veracity.” For a few moments, Tom thought that he was going to take him up on the offer, but then the anger faded from his face.

“No,” he said with a sigh, looking away again. “No, you’re right.” He was silent for a long moment before he continued. “I’ve been letting others define me for a long time,” he said with a grim note, and an equally serious expression in his eyes when he turned back to meet Tom’s gaze. “Maybe it’s time for me to stop that, and just be myself.” A smile spread across Tom’s face.

“I look forward to seeing it, master,” he said honestly, nothing but excitement filling him at the thought.

**XXXexplicit NSFW sceneXXX**

Harry woke slowly, rising like a bubble through the dark waters of sleep, pausing briefly just under the surface where nonsensical dreams reigned, before finally bursting to the surface, his consciousness filtering in. He just lay there for a few moments, his eyes closed, his other senses dominating. There was the familiar softness which made his own bed instantly identifiable; the scent of slightly musty wood which dominated his room; the sound of soft breathing from his lover lying next to him. The last made him finally open his eyes and turn his head, a soft smile on his face as he took in the relaxed features of the man who shared his bed with him these days.

Tom was still asleep. It wasn’t uncommon for Harry to wake up before his lover – the Dursleys had installed in him a body clock which rarely allowed Harry to sleep long after seven. No matter how frequent it was, however, Harry always appreciated this small glimpse into the past, into the person Tom could have been had his life been a little easier. It was at times like these that Harry sometimes found himself cursing Dumbledore for looking at a child and seeing a monster, cursing everyone at Hogwarts who had ignored the suffering of that child which _had_ turned him into a monster who lashed out from pain and fear.

Harry heaved a sigh, and then held his breath as Tom’s eyelashes fluttered a little. He wasn’t ready to wake Tom up yet – he had plans. When his lover murmured for a moment and then settled back down, shifting a little so he was lying on his stomach and facing away from Harry, he couldn’t help from grinning. That made his plans even easier.

Moving slowly, he gently pushed himself upright and then removed the blankets a bit at the time so his slave’s entire body from his head down to his knees was revealed. Gently touching Tom’s shoulder, he slid his hand down the length of that sinuous spine, enjoying the feeling of soft, sleep-warm skin under his hand.

Reaching the round globes that made up Tom’s buttocks, Harry gently stroked and massaged the supple flesh, getting Tom used to the feeling. He murmured a little and shifted again, but didn’t wake. Still, Harry knew that it wouldn’t be long until he did – he had been sleeping with this man long enough to have noticed the signs of him waking up. So, deciding to get on with it, Harry slid a finger between his cheeks and gently tested his hole.

It was still somewhat loose from their activities before sleeping, but only slightly damp. Not wanting to hurt Tom more than a bit of a burn, which he knew from their experiments together would actually enhance his pleasure, Harry summoned his wand over from his night table and cast a lubrication charm on his cock. After he’d wandlessly summoned the blanket to cover Tom in a fit of panic, he’d been trying to replicate the event, finally succeeding a few days ago. He still marvelled at it, at how useful a skill it was. That didn’t mean, however, that he could cast anything _else_ wandlessly. Or at least, not yet.

Smoothing the lube down his cock, he gently pulled Tom’s cheeks apart and the tip of his member kissed Tom’s hole. Pausing for a moment just to enjoy the sight of his still-sleeping slave’s anal muscle twitching at the touch of his dick, as if it knew what was coming next, even though Tom didn’t. Then, with a small grunt of effort, he pushed straight in, burying himself in his slave, the heat and tightness sending ecstasy through him.

Tom shot awake, his upper body lifting in the air and his legs clenching as if to get away from the sudden sting. Harry just leaned forward and put a hand between his shoulder blades, using some of his weight to force Tom back down. The other hand hooked around his slave’s creamy thigh, and Harry used it as leverage to pull Tom’s body back to meet his thrusts. Tom’s noises turned from slightly pained to thoroughly aroused, his hands clenching in the pillow near his head.

“How does it feel?” Harry growled, leaning in so more of his weight was pinning Tom down and his head was closer to Tom’s. “How does it feel to be _used_? To be an object for my pleasure and nothing more?” Tom moaned brokenly, what Harry could see of his eyes glazing over, his breath coming out of his body in pants. But there was no sign of discontent, no indication of pain greater than Harry intended, or of desire to get away, so Harry leant back up, satisfied. “Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered, his voice gruff. Tom immediately obeyed, crossing his hands at their wrist in the small of his back, no matter that the position meant every thrust Harry made pressed him even more thoroughly into the pillow below his head in a way that couldn’t have been comfortable. Harry gripped the point where his slave’s wrists crossed, and used the extra leverage to pound even harder and deeper until he found his orgasm looming.

“Master, Master,” Tom chanted. “Please, Master,” he begged. “Please!”

“Please what, my slave?” Harry asked, knowing exactly what he wanted, but wanting him to _say_ it.

“Please may I come?” Tom pleaded. Harry let the moment draw out before giving his answer, enjoying the taste of the words in his mouth.

“No.” Tom let out a desperate whine.

“Please, please! I need to come, please Master,” he begged again, even more shamelessly than before.

“No,” Harry repeated. “And if you come without permission, I’ll punish you,” he threatened lightly, though both of them knew it wasn’t an idle threat. This wasn’t the first time Harry had denied Tom an orgasm, though he hadn’t done it often. One time, however, Tom had disobeyed and had let himself come when he hadn’t received permission and Harry, true to his words and what Tom had requested of him several weeks ago, had punished him for it. Tom _definitely_ hadn’t enjoyed the spell which Harry had found which kept him feeling like he was on the edge of an orgasm without being able to tip over for _hours_.

At the reminder of what had happened last time, Tom shuddered slightly and Harry felt him clench around his cock. He wasn’t sure whether it was from the memory of the sensation, a way of him trying to stop himself from orgasming, or his attempt at making Harry finish faster. Either way, Harry found his own climax looming and, since he had no intention of holding it back, he let it crest over him. His vision vanished as he automatically shut his eyes and stars exploded across his eyelids. Pleasure rolled through him as he spurted his seed into his slave’s warm and welcoming hole.

**End explicit scene**

A few moments later, he pulled out and lay to one side, picking up his wand to cast a cleaning charm on the semen which was dripping out of Tom, and then a drying charm on both of them. Then, pulling the blanket back up to cover them in the slightly chilly air of the bedroom, he pulled Tom in close.

His slave sighed in contentment, his cock like a brand against Harry’s hip. Clearly, Tom was still highly aroused, but with the desperation caused by Harry’s every movement pushing up against his prostate gone, he didn’t ask to come again. Harry traced Tom’s features, caressing his cheek and then stroking his hair, his neck, his shoulders.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmured, watching as the words sent a shudder through his slave. “So willing to be mine; to be owned by me.”

“I’m yours, Master,” Tom replied, his head moving up so his eyes met Harry’s. Harry couldn’t help but take in an amazed breath at the look in them – soft, vulnerable, peaceful. Tom looked like all was right with his world and that he didn’t want to be anywhere but here, in Harry’s arms. They were slightly glazed from his normal reaction to Harry being more dominant with him, and the sight sent a wave of protectiveness through Harry. He didn’t care that the man in his arms was several times his senior, currently more powerful than him, and had a huge amount more knowledge than him: Tom was his to protect. He vowed that no one but him, and anyone else Tom chose, would see this soft and oh so vulnerable side of him. To everyone else, he was the more or less snarky slave, depending on the context and company, and the tamed dark lord. To Harry, though, he was this soft and pliant creature whose desire above all others was to please him. He never thought that this would be possible, but the last month and a half since Lady Magic’s intervention had been a journey of discovery.

They lay there in silence for a short time, their heat rates going back to normal, Tom’s cock slowly starting to deflate, his body snuggling in closer to Harry’s. Eventually, Harry broached his usual post exploration discussion.

“You were so good this morning,” Harry told him first, knowing that Tom hadn’t had enough genuine praise in his life, and that it would help him be honest in the next bit. “How did it make you feel? Waking up with me already in you?” Tom gave the matter due consideration, his gaze having regained its sharpness, though having lost none of the warmth or openness.

“It felt…” he struggled to find the right words. “Right. That you should use me for your pleasure, regardless of mine. That you know my body is yours to the extent of using it without me even being conscious.” He shivered a little. “When I woke up, your cock felt like a burning brand inside me, making me yours, inside and out. And when you pinned me down…” he looked up at Harry and the strange smile that curled at the corner of his lips showed how much he had enjoyed it. “It felt good. It felt right. And even if it hurt a bit…it could have hurt more, and it would still have felt good, if that makes sense.” Harry considered it. On the face of it, it didn’t make sense at all, considering that Tom wasn’t a conventional masochist, for all that he enjoyed a little burn with his pleasure. Looked at a different way, though, it made complete sense – when Harry considered that the emotional component was at least as important as, and perhaps even _more_ important than the physical.

He’d come to an understanding of Tom’s needs in the last couple of months – the weeks before and after Lady Magic’s visit being particularly informative. Tom needed to feel owned, controlled. He needed to feel _used_. But those only by Harry, by someone he trusted and loved. By someone he knew appreciated him and all he could offer. Harry still didn’t know whether it was as a result of the immense guilt Tom still carried around for his own actions, or whether it was a deep need which he had always had but never acknowledged. Privately, Harry suspected the former, but Tom insisted it was the latter so… It just made sense to Harry that his guilt would be at the root of it all: when he felt owned he knew there was no chance of him repeating his mistakes; when he felt used, he could also feel that he was contributing to his debt against society and Harry personally. In fact, Harry suspected that the last was actually more applicable than the first – he knew Tom felt some regret over the mess he’d made of their society, but he also felt, somewhat rightly in Harry’s perspective, that society had done him wrong first. Harry however… Either way, while Harry wasn’t willing to give him the punishment he sometimes felt he deserved – simply for existing, if Harry’s guess was correct – but he was certainly willing to fulfil his need to be owned, as long as it was in a way that could be healthy for both of them.

“Was there anything you didn’t like about it?” Harry asked. Tom gave him a wry look.

“Well, I would have much preferred to have orgasmed, but…” he trailed off and sighed. “Even that…it just reminds me that my body is not my own anymore.” He said the last with a slight smile which Harry couldn’t resist kissing. A few moments later he pulled away, enjoying the dopy look on Tom’s face which was no doubt mirrored on his own.

“Alright, my lazy slave,” Harry said, slapping Tom’s buttocks with his palm, surprising a little squeak out of Tom which he would no doubt deny he’d ever uttered. “Breakfast time. Hop to it,” he ordered lightly. Tom obeyed, sliding out of bed immediately and heading over to his side of the wardrobe to choose his clothes for the day. “Naked,” Harry added, lazily. He stared at Tom through slightly hooded eyes, drinking in the blush that rose slightly to Tom’s cheeks as he paused to look at his master, a pair of underwear already in his hand.

“Yes, master,” he said a moment later, putting the underwear back. Silently, he picked out a set of clothes for Harry and laid them on the bed, as Harry had instructed him a while back. After that, he stepped quietly towards the door in his birthday suit. It wasn’t like they were likely to have visitors, but Harry knew that just the act of walking naked through the house because of his master’s orders sent waves of both excitement and fear through him, as well as the heady sensation of obedience. He knew because they’d talked about it. Harry was trying to make up for the fact that their relationship hadn’t allowed for a long period of discussion before even starting by being very certain to ensure discussion about anything that happened which was even remotely ‘new’.

So far they still hadn’t added any hard limits, but Harry had got a much better idea about what made Tom tick, and _why_ he liked certain things Harry did to him, even when he didn’t actually like them. Which again, made absolutely no sense from one perspective, and complete sense from the other. They still had a long way to go, but Harry was slowly starting to lose his own fear about this being non-consensual at its core. Once again, it was ultimately non-consensual from one perspective, and it wasn’t from the other.

Harry had actually been toying with the idea of telling his friends about the new development – he knew Hermione had already been getting a little suspicious at the last couple of campaign meetings. Not of him and Tom, he didn’t think, but that _something_ was different. He didn’t like lying to his friends, even if it was lying by omission. Nonetheless, he _knew_ Hermione wouldn’t take it well. Nor would Ron. In fact, Harry couldn’t think of anyone who _would_ take it well. But he had to come up with some sort of idea of how to move forward. And soon, because his birthday was coming up, and although Harry really wanted to spend the whole day with Tom, and had a feeling that the sentiment was mutual, Molly had been making noises about his usual birthday party at The Burrow and he did feel like he had neglected that side of things quite a bit with how busy he had been. Merlin, he hadn’t even been to one of the Sunday lunches at the Weasleys’ house in a while.

Sighing, Harry got up, his afterglow rather ruined by his encroaching worries. He got dressed and then took a couple of moments to breathe through his emotions and rid himself of the lingering unease – Tom definitely hadn’t done anything to deserve him being all broody and sullen. Going downstairs, he reminded himself of the images of that morning, and by the time he was entering the kitchen, his relaxed Saturday mood was back. The slight smile on his face widened even more at the sight of his sculpted slave cooking. He was wearing an apron, his collar, and nothing else. They’d come to the conclusion that an apron was definitely necessary when doing anything to do with hot food after a rather embarrassing and almost tragic ending involving a pan of oil and Tom’s bare skin. However, in line with what they had agreed at the time, when the food was done and Tom had brought it over to serve, he quickly stripped off the apron and slid into his seat.

They didn’t say much as they ate, the morning’s activities having given them both an appetite. When Harry had finished, he leant back in his chair with a small groan, pleasure filling him. Good sex, good food, good company…what more could a man ask for? He felt contented in a way he’d never really felt before – there had always been some fly in the ointment to ruin his feeling. At the Dursleys…well, enough said. At Hogwarts it had often been the other students, Snape, and the various dangers that threatened his life. At the Weasleys’ it had been the knowledge that for all they treated him as one of the family, he really wasn’t. During the war, feeling content had been the polar opposite of his emotions most of the time. Even after it had ended, he had felt restless, depressed, he supposed, not knowing what to do. And then there had been the whole mess with Tom arriving and then Draco later. So now he was finally feeling that alien emotion called ‘contentment’, he was determined to make sure it happened a lot more frequently in the future.

“Good, master?” Tom asked, an eyebrow cocked curiously. Harry smiled at him.

“Yes,” he said simply. “And you?” Tom nodded, the action taking his head a little deeper and held down a little longer than a normal nod.

“Yes,” he replied, just as simply. And with that exchange, Harry realised that somehow, despite all expectations, the one person in the world who knew him best was the man who he’d been raised to kill. And he was OK with that.

XXX

Tom finished off his breakfast quickly, noting that Harry had already finished.

“Shall I get the post?” he asked after he’d sent all the used utensils and crockery to be cleaned and then put away. His master nodded, so he got up and walked to the sitting room. After the invasion of owls which had followed the article in the paper, Harry had put up a mail collection ward at Tom’s suggestion. Tom didn’t know why he hadn’t done that a long time ago – yes, it meant that any owls waiting for a reply wouldn’t get them, but if the person hadn’t written enough details in their letter for Harry to send his own owl with a reply, that wasn’t _Harry’s_ fault now, was it? This way was much better in Tom’s opinion – a neat pile of letters were stacked in a container which had been connected to the ward, ready to be picked up and read.

He padded back to the kitchen, barely noticing his nakedness any more. When he did notice it, however, he got the same delicious sensations of nervousness and submission which always racked him whenever Harry ordered him to do something a bit out of his comfort zone. He’d always liked pushing boundaries – at the orphanage he’d had to do it as a matter of course because if he didn’t, they would walk over him. At Hogwarts it had been the same in the first few years, but even after he had gained control, he’d discovered that he liked playing with both people and magic, testing what he could make it, or them, do. Even after Hogwarts he’d enjoyed learning new magics, discovering new places and challenging himself in different ways.

Now with Harry, the same desires were there, but in a different form. He liked it when Harry tried new things with him, like that morning, especially without discussing them with him first. He appreciated that Harry was doing his best to make sure he didn’t go too far, though Tom thought that he was still light years away from crossing any limits, but the beginning of this all had seen Harry being a bit _too_ cautious. He’d often checked whether something was likely to be alright before doing it, which Tom knew came from a place of concern, but had frustrated him at times – he had dedicated himself to Harry because he trusted that Harry wouldn’t push him more than he could handle; he didn’t want to feel that if he said he didn’t like something, Harry wouldn’t do it. Knowing what was coming and talking it out extensively beforehand had been a responsible thing to do, he supposed, but it _had_ taken out some of the satisfaction too.

However, recently, Harry seemed to have gained a bit more confidence. Maybe it was because of all the talking they’d done, all the topics they’d covered: maybe Harry felt like he could go off script a bit. And that morning… Tom felt a wave of satisfaction go through him at the memory. Waking up to the knowledge that his master was using him, that even the use of his body wasn’t under his control…it should have been terrifying. Tom remembered using the thought of such a situation to cool his ardour a few months ago purely because, at the time, it _had_ been terrifying. But now, it was not.

Tom supposed that it was because the contexts were completely different. Then had been the image of himself _forced_ to become an unfeeling object because of the collar, his own wants and needs and desires completely negated, his compliance forced by threat of pain or mind-manipulating pleasure. Now was the reality of choosing to be a prized possession who was used but not abused, dominated, but never negated, his own needs as equal in the relationship as his master’s. He recognised how the situations could look similar to the casual viewer from the outside, but from within, they were worlds apart.

Either way, he had thoroughly enjoyed that morning, even being denied an orgasm because the pleasure of obeying his master was as good, in different ways, as the physical pleasure of a climax. He hoped that it was a sign of many more to come.

Returning to the kitchen, he laid the letters out in front of his master, and then slid to his knees, rubbing his head against his master’s thigh in a gesture he realised came purely from the cat he’d released within him. Ever since they’d taken that animagus potion, he’d noticed little changes, little habits that both of them had adopted. Tom had taken to rubbing his head against his master’s thigh in a gesture that was both affectionate from the human, and possessive from the cat. He’d also found that the warmth on the fire on his skin was even more pleasant than before, as were the sensations when Harry stroked his hair. He’d found himself sleeping a bit longer in the mornings and being a little more alert in the late evenings, which made sense since his animagus was primarily nocturnal.

As for Harry, his temper was a little shorter than it had been before, though Tom knew he’d been doing his best to not take it out on his slave, which he definitely appreciated. He’d also been showing more possessiveness, treating Tom a bit more roughly in bed than he might have expected from the Golden Gryffindor Saviour, not that Tom minded a bit – he liked it in fact. On the rare occasion that Harry had actually left a bruise from a tight grip, Tom had been rather pleased with it and had politely refused Harry’s guilty offer to heal it. He hadn’t seen any other particularly obvious changes in his master, but on the other hand, the younger man was not as far as Tom in the actual transformation process.

Due to his workload, he didn’t have much time to practise – although his NEWTs had finished which had definitely freed up some time, he was now in the final assessment period of his Auror year. Tom didn’t think he had much reason to fret – he’d passed his mock assessments at the end of May with flying colours, so Tom seriously doubted he was likely to do any less now. As a result, though Tom had so far managed to turn his arm into a paw including claws and correct jointing, Harry had only just managed to start growing scales on his arm. Nonetheless, considering that it usually took three to seven years to actually transform, when following the traditional route of meditation, even making a few changes less than a month on from discovering one’s form was an achievement.

“Tom,” Harry said suddenly, immediately pulling Tom out of his thoughts.

“Yes, master?” he asked. Wordlessly, his master handed him a letter. Tom took it and, as was obviously intended for him to do, read it.

“So, what do you think?” Harry asked expectantly when he handed the missive back. Tom looked up to meet his gaze and raised an eyebrow.

“It sounds like a good opportunity,” he offered. “There aren’t many Master Mind-Healers who would be willing to offer their time pro bono like that.” Harry made an impatient gesture.

“That wasn’t what I was talking about. It was her request to meet the person who managed to rehabilitate someone with…” he frowned and scanned the letter again. “Yes. With Adlfictus Tuitio syndrome. I assume that’s talking about what you did with Draco, because I can’t think of why she would be asking _me_ that kind of question unless it was.” Tom shrugged.

“What is your wish, master?” he asked. “She was right to ask you as it is your right to direct my time. If you wish me to meet and speak with her, I will.” Harry stared at with a hard look.

“You know that wasn’t my question,” he responded calmly. “Which must mean that you’re deflecting. Why does this make you nervous?” Tom held his look for a moment longer before he couldn’t and dropped it to his master’s chest. He sighed.

“I’m worried that she might tell me I did it all wrong, that I injured Draco in some way. That maybe I injured him permanently,” he admitted. A hand reached out to cup his chin and urge it back up so he could meet his master’s gaze.

“I highly doubt that,” Harry told him quietly. “And don’t tell me you truly believe that – we’ve seen Draco several times since he was freed, and each time he’s been getting better and better: more able to speak unprompted, less timid, just…better. If you had somehow damaged him in some way, wouldn’t he be showing the signs of it?” There was a silence for a few beats before Tom spoke.

“I know, master. I know that in my head. But my heart knows that my head has made too many errors in my life, and there is little trust between them,” he admitted. Harry gave him a crooked smile and stroked his thumb across Tom’s cheek.

“Alright, then – trust me. I’ll arrange a meeting between the two of you. If both of you are happy with it, I’ll even leave you alone to speak. I highly doubt that you did any damage, and if on the off-chance you did, it was completely unintended and due more to inexperience than malice.” His tone offered no opportunity to object, nor did it ask for his permission. Tom felt it wrap around him like a warm blanket, its security and the knowledge that he could just…let go filling him.

“Yes, master,” he said finally, knowing his eyes would be shining with all the gratitude he couldn’t express. Harry just leant forward and kissed him gently, lovingly.

XXX

Harry couldn’t resist. Tom was just…so attractive. So kissable. He knew they’d been acting like horny teenagers lately, unable to keep their hands away from each other, but why should they when it just felt so good? When they were in their own home, safe and private? He should have known that it couldn’t last.

There were only fifteen minutes to go until the campaign meeting of that fortnight started, but everything was prepared – Harry had just checked the drawing room himself. Then Tom had come up to ask a question, and Harry had been unable to resist. Reaching up, he pulled at his slave’s collar until the man leant down close enough for him to devour that red-lipped mouth as he had so many times before. Each time it seemed better, practice making perfect as the old adage said. Tom whimpered against his mouth and his knees buckled slightly. Harry didn’t stop him, in fact aided his slide to his knees by pressing gently on his shoulder.

Now Tom’s face was lower than Harry’s, he could _take_ in the way he had wanted to from the start. His two hands cupped Tom’s face on either side and held his head steady as his lips, tongue, and teeth massaged and nipped at Tom’s mouth. His slave whimpered again, his arms trembling at his sides, clearly longing to reach out and touch Harry, but knowing better than to do so without permission when Harry was in this mood.

A mood which was abruptly destroyed a moment later.

“Harry!” the shocked, _betrayed_ sound of his best female friend’s voice snapped him out of his ardour as quickly as a bucket of ice water would have done. Instinctively, he stepped in front of Tom to shield him from view, a hand behind his back gesturing for his slave to rise. Hearing more than seeing Tom’s movement, he took a step forward, both hands now in front of himself in a placating gesture.

“Hermione…” he started, not sure what to say.

“What were you doing?!” she shrieked. _Oh no_ , Harry thought with resignation. The last time he had heard that tone of voice had been just before she had shot a flock of angry birds at Ron. Angry, hurt, shocked…. What was he going to do now?

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More detail about the dubcon: the dubious consent is because Harry starts something while Tom is asleep, but it is revealed later that Tom is thoroughly on board with what was happening, and that although that particular scenario hadn’t been discussed prior to the events, other scenarios had.


	15. Part 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are finally drawn to a close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, first....sorry? It feels like more than two weeks since I posted the last chapter, but honestly, I've been so busy and tired lately that writing has been more than a little difficult recently. Added to that, I have well and truly lost my inspiration for this story, hence why this chapter is missing two scenes I thought I was going to add, simply because I had no idea about *how* to write them, and waiting until I had the inspiration would have delayed the chapter indefinitely... I thought you'd all prefer to have this now than at some point long in the future.
> 
> More positively, with this final chapter, this monster of a story has finally gone past the 400k mark, which I am ridiculously proud of. And honestly, I've got to say that you and your feedback over this time has been a big part of this - I can't count the number of times a scene happened because someone left a comment asking an insightful question... So, thank you everyone for being on this journey with me :D
> 
> So, without further ado, here it is - the final installment of Harry's and Tom's journey from enemies to lovers, from reluctant Master and slave, to people comfortable in their skin and roles. Enjoy!

XXX

Hermione had flooed in a few minutes ago. She was about ten minutes early, which wasn’t exactly unusual – she felt that punctuality was a sign of respect, and that by always arriving a few minutes before, she showed the value she put on the other person’s time. She hadn’t considered, however, that perhaps always being early was an irritation in itself, and everyone had always been too polite to mention it. Nonetheless, it was a bit strange that neither Harry nor Tom was there to meet her. Every session they’d had so far had had at least one of them in the room on her arrival, if not both of them. Maybe they were caught up somewhere.

She waited a little impatiently, distracted from her thoughts about the meeting by the sudden flare of green in the fire. Out stepped Neville. He looked around with a frown on his face.

“I know, I haven’t seen them yet, either,” she commented. “Maybe they’re held up by something?” she suggested uncertainly. Neville shrugged.

“Well, we know where to go. I suppose we could always go up there. Maybe they’re getting the room ready.” Hermione nodded in assent and they proceeded up the stairs together. Hermione’s brows drew together as they reached the top of the stairs. A strange sound had been registered by her ears. It came again. A whimper? Moving a little faster, she rounded the corner of the door frame and almost couldn’t believe her eyes.

Harry had Tom on his knees, and was _kissing_ him. Her best friend had his slave’s head trapped between his hands and was forcing himself on someone who couldn’t fight back, who couldn’t protest. Hermione could see Tom’s arms trembling at his sides, no doubt wanting to push his attacker away, but not daring because his attacker was a man who held complete power over him. Another whimper of fear hit her ears and she couldn’t hold back her words any longer.

“Harry!” she exclaimed. Her best friend, the man she had _thought_ she knew as well as she knew herself, jerked away from his slave, his eyes wide. In a single movement, he twisted so that Tom was behind him, obviously trying to deny what she had seen with her very own eyes. A moment later, Tom was standing and Harry was taking a step towards her, his hands out in front of him, evidently trying to placate her. Well, it wouldn’t work!

“Hermione…” he started, trailing off. She _glared_ at him, hoping her look conveyed her feelings well enough.

“What were you doing?” she demanded, showing admirable restraint in not _stepping forward to shake him_. Because physical assault was _never_ the answer, and she thought he had realised that. To find him abusing his slave…it was a betrayal of the highest order.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he tried.

“You mean you’re not having a sexual relationship with someone who has no capacity to say ‘no’ to you, and no legal or social recourse for anything you do to him?”

“No! I mean, yes, but not like that!” he tried to protest, attempting to defend the indefensible.

“Then what _is_ it like? _Please_ explain how taking advantage of a man who is completely dependent on you is _ever_ OK?” she asked with a note of sarcasm in her voice, but also a note of genuine pleading. She _wanted_ to believe that Harry hadn’t been changed by the power he held over Tom, but couldn’t see how it was possible, not when he’d done _this_. And he hadn’t even denied a sexual relationship…what if they’d gone further? A bolt of horror went through her. What if this wasn’t the first time?

There was the noise of chatter from the stairs and suddenly Seamus poked his head around the door.

“They’re here, everyone,” he shouted down the stairs, and then turned his attention properly to the room, his grin slipping off his face as he took in the scene. Hermione tried to imagine what it looked like – Harry looking defensive, Neville shocked, and she… She didn’t know what she looked like. Angry? Upset? _Betrayed_? She didn’t realise that her hand had been hovering over her wand for who knew how long, and forcibly wrenched it away. “What’s going on?” he asked warily, the other members of the group coming up the stairs and falling silent as they also saw the tense standoff.

“Harry was just about to explain why he feels it’s appropriate to conduct a _sexual relationship_ with his _slave_ ,” Hermione explained savagely. At the eyes suddenly landing on him, Harry scowled and crossed his arms. He was still standing in front of Tom and his whole posture bristled. Hermione hoped that he wouldn’t turn around and take it out on Tom later – she wouldn’t have thought so before this evening, but she wouldn’t have thought many things before this evening, so how could she be sure?

“Rather say,” he started, his tone firm but with a hint of anger, “that I am conducting a _mutually satisfying_ relationship with _Tom_.”

“Harry…” Neville said slowly, the first time he’d spoken since this whole thing had started. “Tom _is_ your slave. You can’t separate the two.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Harry demanded, his head turning towards Neville, but his eyes flicking over the others in the group.

“I’m…concerned that you might have forgotten. Or ignored the implications.” At that, Harry’s expression twisted with anger and…hurt? Why did he look _hurt_?

“Do you really think so little of me?” he bit out. “Do you _honestly believe_ that I’ve turned into one of the people we’re fighting against?” he asked, a note of incredulity in his voice. His eyes flicked from one face to another, and evidently the answer he received was not what he’d been looking for as his expression hardened. Opening his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by Draco’s drawl from the back of the group.

“Why is everyone clustered around the doorway? Has something happened?” There was a shift in the crowd at the entrance to the room and Draco’s pointy pale face came to the fore. Hermione saw his eyes flick from her to Harry, to Tom, to Neville, and back again. “What’s happened?” he asked, more seriously. Hermione opened her mouth, but it was actually Seamus who answered.

“Seems like Hermione and Neville saw something which made them accuse Harry and Tom of having a relationship. A _sexual_ relationship.” Draco looked back at Harry and tilted his head to one side slightly.

“Is that true?” he asked quietly. Harry gave a short, stiff nod of assent. “ _Finally_!” he exclaimed inexplicably.

“What?” The word slipped from her lips unbidden. Draco turned towards her gesticulating wildly.

“Well, they sure took their time about it, didn’t they? Drove me almost stark staring bonkers with the amount of sexual tension between them while I was here. And as for the indecisive _angst_ ….. Tom was the worst,” he accused, pointing at Tom to emphasise his point. “But Harry was just as bad, only not quite as obvious about it. So frankly, if you’ve finally got your heads out of your arses, thank. Bloody. Merlin.” Hermione wasn’t the only one staring at Draco by the end of his diatribe, but at least she had managed to avoid the open-mouthed gaping that some of her compatriots had fallen victim to. Even Harry, and what little Hermione could see of Tom, showed surprise.

“You knew?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“Knew? Of course I bloody knew,” Draco emphasised. “You kept sending Tom lovelorn glances, and then caught yourself sending them, and looked away with a guilty expression. As for Tom, he was _worse_ , if that was possible. _Pining_ , oh Merlin, the _pining_. And still trying to convince himself that he actually _wanted_ to get away. I mean, I didn’t put it all together at that time – I had rather too many things to think about of my own, but looking back on it, I’m surprised I didn’t catch you shagging on the couch or something.” He made a face. “Please tell me you haven’t shagged on any of the furniture here?” he almost begged. Harry and Tom exchanged a glance which looked, from what Hermione could see of it, a mixture of exasperated and amused.

“We haven’t,” Harry replied, that same mixture of emotions in his voice.

“Yet,” added Tom from over his shoulder. Draco’s face, which had looked relieved after Harry’s confirmation, suddenly looked a little disgusted at the thought. Hermione couldn’t hold her tongue any longer – why was Draco taking this so well? As a former slave, and one who had been horribly abused by his master, and had argued in their campaign sessions for stricter controls on what masters could do, she just didn’t understand.

“Don’t tell me you’re planning to _continue_ this?” she exclaimed. “And you,” she continued, rounding on Draco. “How come you’re taking this so well?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Draco asked, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “And why shouldn’t _they_?” Hermione couldn’t find words at first.

“Because…because,” she stammered. “Tom’s a _slave_ ,” she said finally, and was met with the same expression of non-comprehension. “Because Harry’s _forcing_ Tom. Doesn’t that worry you? After what you went through?” Draco’s expression darkened.

“Harry is _nothing_ like that man,” he bit out defensively. “And I thoroughly doubt he’s _forcing_ Tom to do anything. It surprises me that you would accuse your _best friend_ of such a thing.” Hermione looked over at Harry and Tom who had been silently watching. Harry looked grateful for Draco’s defence, and Tom’s face was expressionless. Hermione didn’t know why, but it could easily be that he didn’t want to earn punishment by gainsaying his master, especially not in front of his friends.

“When one of the partners is unable to withdraw consent, it is arguable that they cannot give it, either,” Susan’s voice said quietly from where she was standing in the doorway. All eyes on her now, she hesitated for a moment. “I don’t think any of us here would consider Harry capable of forcing Tom into something,” she continued, looking around for support. “Not by using threat of punishment, at least.” There were a number of nods. Hermione wasn’t so sure, given what she had read about the corrupting nature of power - and the absolute corruption that was said to result from absolute power - but she definitely _wanted_ to believe that it was true. “But you have to admit that since Tom has no hope of becoming free, his reasons for consenting may not be…healthy.” Draco looked like he was about to reply, but Harry stepped forward, all attention immediately on his movement.

“While I’m glad that it appears you’re not accusing me of being one of the abusers Hermione and I formed this group to fight,” Hermione didn’t think she was imagining the fleeting glance that flicked her way, nor its accusing edge, “I’m disappointed that you would think that I wouldn’t do due diligence before even beginning something like this.” His voice cut through the room like a whip. “I realise that not everyone here knows me as well as Hermione or Draco, but I would have hoped that my conduct so far has demonstrated clearly that I hate abuse, and wouldn’t engage in it myself.” Several people avoided his gaze, Hermione herself unable to hold it. Had she been wrong? But how could a relationship between a master and slave ever be truly consensual?

“We just want to understand,” Neville said quietly. “You have to recognise that it’s not…an easy situation to come to terms with, or to see working.”

“No it’s not,” Harry admitted freely. “But I wish that you had actually asked questions, rather than immediately assuming that I was doing something wrong.” Hermione was pretty sure she wasn’t imagining the way he was pointedly _not_ looking at her. But how else was she supposed to react when her best friend had done something so out of character for him?

“Agreed,” Neville said with a ghost of a smile. “I apologise for jumping to conclusions, Harry. Would you answer some questions for us now?” Harry’s face was still unsmiling as he replied.

“It depends on the question, but yes. In theory.”

“Master,” Tom spoke up from behind Harry’s shoulder. Hermione saw the change in her best friend’s body language – although he didn’t turn around to face the other man, his head twisted around slightly and his shoulders moved. No words were necessary – his body stated clearly that he was open to listening to whatever Tom had to say. “Perhaps it might be best if they ask the questions of me. Clearly, they are worried that you are not taking the situation and my feelings into account; maybe if I am the one to set their fear at rest, it will be more impactful?” His tone was polite…and completely unreadable. Hermione didn’t know if it was a cry for help, an _offer_ of help, or simply exactly what Tom said. All considered, the last seemed the least likely – from what Hermione had learned, Tom rarely said exactly what he meant; there was always subtext. Still, Harry was considering it, which seemed a good sign – if he was carrying on an abusive relationship behind closed doors, would he really allow his partner to speak?

“Alright,” he decided finally.

“And maybe it would be better if I were _alone_ with them.” Hermione held her breath. Harry wouldn’t…would he? There was a moment of silence, and it was like the room was holding its breath along with her. Harry tilted his body around further so he was able to look his slave in the eyes, a faint frown on his face.

“You’re sure you want to do that?” A hint of a smirk ghosted around Tom’s mouth, visible even from a few paces away.

“I think I can handle a group of people I’ve already been working with for months without you there to back me up, master,” he replied wryly. Harry didn’t answer for a moment. From where Hermione was, she couldn’t see his full expression, so wasn’t sure what he was thinking.

“Fine. But you call me as soon as you want to, OK?” Hermione saw a warm light flare in Tom’s red eyes, the smirk softening into the barest hint of a smile.

“Deal.” Harry turned to the rest of them, his expression hard.

“Alright, so Tom’s going to answer your questions. You’re _not_ to interrogate him, and if he doesn’t want to answer a question, you leave it well enough alone. This is for you to verify that he is both capable of consenting, and desirous of doing so. It’s not for you to dig into his past or our personal lives, understood?” his tone was firm and unyielding. There was even a smattering of assents from the group of people. “Of course, I would _hope_ that none of you would act like that, but…” _since you seemed to think me capable of abusing my slave, I can’t take anything for granted,_ his expression seemed to say even as he didn’t complete the thought out loud. “I’m going to leave the room. Tom, answer as you would like – seeing as everyone here is so concerned about your consent, I _really_ don’t think they’ll be expecting you to behave like a slave.”

When Tom nodded slightly, Harry turned and headed towards the door, the crowd at it parting like the red sea before Moses. Then, pausing just outside the room, he turned back towards them. Looking around himself almost lazily, he held up his wand as if he was about to cast _lumos_. “I promise on my wand that I will not ask you about the discussion later.” Hermione’s eyebrows rose in surprise as the tip flared slightly to show that the oath had taken. “So no one has to fear that your words are because of a fear of later retribution should you not say things I would approve of.”

With that, he disappeared down the stairs, soon vanishing from view. All eyes turned to the slave standing in the middle of the room, looking utterly relaxed and not as if he was about to be hit by a barrage of questions from all sides. When Hermione opened her mouth to ask a question, Tom held up a hand to halt her, something hard in his eyes. She shut her mouth with a click, a sudden feeling of slight intimidation rolling through her as his positioning shifted ever so slightly.

“Shall we take a seat?” Tom asked smoothly, though the undertone and the way he moved towards his chair told Hermione that it wasn’t really a suggestion. Sitting down before any of them had moved, he settled into a posture more reminiscent of a power pose than the deferential one they were used to seeing – his long fingers steepled with his elbows resting on the chair arms; his ankle hooked over one knee. No kneeling slave here.

She had never realised how much the subtle deference and submission in his body language on previous occasions had been reassuring. Sure, the first time she had seen him in a collar hadn’t been like that, but that had been different – at that time, he had clearly been fighting his circumstances and not succeeding. And even then there had been more anger and defiance in the lines of his body than intimidation. Now, something was different. There was no anger, no defiance. If anything, she would say he looked…at ease with everything – in fact, nothing so far that evening had seemed to ruffle his feathers at all. Instead, with the exit of his master, all hints of submission had left his position and Hermione was suddenly reminded that _this had been Voldemort_. Not because of any fear of madness or imminent danger, or not exactly: it was more that from the moment Harry had left, Tom had gained complete control of the room, and she doubted many people realised it. A quick glance around the room, her eyes lingering briefly on Blaise’s face, as well as Draco’s and Neville’s showed that they at least had realised the same or similar things to her.

Seeing their hesitance, no one seemingly caring to make the first move, Tom raised an insouciant eyebrow and used one hand to gesture towards the chairs around him, in an invitation as aristocratic and arrogant as any king sitting on a throne. They all suddenly started moving, the hold he had on their minds indisputable. Hermione wondered at this sudden change in demeanour. Was this what lay below the mask of submission he showed in Harry’s presence? Or was this the mask? And if it wasn’t, how could Harry trust him when _this_ lurked in the background.

When they were all sitting, their gazes fixed on Tom, he tilted his head to one side, his expression deceptively placid.

“You have questions?” he invited. Hermione saw some of the group exchanging looks and hesitating. She opened her mouth again, but was beaten by Neville.

“Harry said that the relationship between the two of you is ‘mutually satisfying’. What would you say to that?” Hermione had to admire him for the calmness with which he produced that question – she wouldn’t have been able to word it in such a…diplomatic way. She would be the first to admit that, although her diplomacy skills had been getting a workout in her job, they certainly weren’t her strongest.

Tom breathed in slowly, his nose flaring slightly. He took his time answering, making it very clear that it was at his convenience that he responded; not at theirs.

“I would completely agree,” he said finally.

“But how?” Hermione demanded, leaning forwards, the question bursting out of her with the full force of her confusion and worry behind it. Tom looked at her, and she flinched backwards slightly at the look in his eyes. She hadn’t seen them so…cold, so judging since their first discussion months ago. In fact, maybe they were even colder now than then – at that time she had known that he didn’t like her; that he was putting up with her because Harry said to, but she hadn’t got the sense that that dislike was _personal_. This…this was. And she wondered why.

“Tell me, _Hermione_ ,” he started, his lip curling slightly as he spoke, the first time he’d used her Christian name. “When does Harry simply _leap_ into something when there are other options?” She opened her mouth to retort that throughout their time together, Harry had _frequently_ leapt into something without doing much research. But before she spoke, she hesitated. Was that actually true? Harry had certainly jumped into things, but he’d usually tried to find another way first.

First year with the Stone, they’d tried to speak to McGonagall. Second year, from what Ron and Harry had said, they’d tried to enlist Lockhart’s help, before realising he was an absolute fraud – which still rankled, knowing she’d idolised a liar and a cheat. Third year they’d been rather taken aback by a massive black dog leaping on Ron and dragging him away by the leg – not many options to do anything else. Fourth year, he’d done his best to be prepared – it wasn’t his fault that Voldemort had made the Cup into a portkey. Fifth year, he’d tried to contact Sirius through the fireplace in Umbridge’s office, and then tried to warn Snape. Sixth year…well, that wasn’t really Harry’s fault at all, and he _had_ been right about Draco, much as Hermione hated to admit it. As for during the miserable time they’d spent camping, they’d done what they could to do their research before leaping. So actually, while Harry wasn’t as…enamoured of books and research as Hermione was, he had only flown by the seat of his pants when he’d already tried a different option, or time hadn’t permitted anything else.

“He isn’t known for doing a significant amount of research before acting,” she said finally, feeling disloyal, but confident in her assertion. Tom shifted slightly and Hermione had the distinct feeling that he was looking down his nose at her.

“Really, even for something as important as this?” Hermione couldn’t hold his gaze, knowing the answer based on how much time Harry had spent considering the ritual which had started all of this. Looking back, she could see how many seemingly unconnected questions or suggestions had had their roots in his plan to use the ritual and risk his life or magic to take Voldemort down. “That’s what I thought,” Tom replied, satisfaction in his voice as he took her silence for the answer it was. “And that is the case here,” he said, Hermione aware of his focus shifting off her, to her relief. “This was not something we entered into lightly, I assure you. It took weeks after I had made the initial offer for me to be able to convince him to give us a go.” Seeing their surprised looks, a smirk came onto his face. “Yes, I made the initial move, and most of the ones following. Harry had made it clear previously that for him, even if I felt attraction towards him, it did not count as consent – only my honest desire to explore something _with him_ was sufficient.”

“But as you are a slave, and legally unable to refuse your master any service, how do you deal with the inability to consent?” asked Padma logically. Tom tilted his head towards her, perhaps in recognition of a point well-made, Hermione thought.

“That was indeed one of the major factors we had to surmount in order for Harry to feel willing to start a relationship between us. Remember that my ability, or inability, to consent is dependent on my master’s desires. He desired me to be able to give consent, and so has given me the ability to _withhold_ consent with no fear of punishment for it.” Hermione’s eyebrows were not the only ones that went up in surprise around the table.

“How is that possible?” questioned Blaise with a focused and critical gaze. “Any promises he made to you could arguably be broken later at his convenience.”

“Not promises backed with magic,” Tom countered softly, his words nonetheless carrying around the room, his smooth baritone making them feel like caresses to his listeners’ ears. Hermione shivered. Suddenly, her worry for Tom shifted to worry for _Harry_. If he’d made a promise backed by magic, he had truly bound himself to whatever he had vowed. Hermione hoped that it wouldn’t hamper his ability to withstand manipulations from Tom. The slave he’d appeared to be for so long had lulled her into thinking that this part of him was gone – the dominant, powerful, manipulative, cunning part. But no, it had simply been hidden.

“Do not doubt,” Tom continued, just as softly, but an oppressive presence filling the air around them, lifting the hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck, “that Harry has done his due diligence. I am sure he… _appreciates_ the concern,” although his slight pause and emphasis on the word ‘appreciates’ implied the opposite, “and the knowledge that should he slip down a path he never wanted to walk, you would be there to pull him back to the…the _light_.” Was it just Hermione, or did it feel like he was laughing uproariously within his head? “This is not one of those situations. We have chosen this _together_ and need none other to validate or condemn our relationship. Or tell us how we should practice it within our private home. I really _hope_ that all of you recognise the privilege you have been given in being able to have this view into our private lives…” he let his words trail off.

Hermione let her eyes flick around the table, and saw an understanding of his implication in all of their eyes, as well as the realisation that she had come to, and a hint of fear. They were in front of the man who had once been the Dark Lord, and he hadn’t been as de-fanged as they had been wont to assume. Honestly, though Hermione found herself reassured despite her previous thoughts – while Tom did seem to have regained – _revealed?_ –some of his more intimidating traits, at least he seemed to be using them in _protection_ of Harry this time. Unless it was self-protection – if the Ministry heard about this, they would insist on worse treatment of the slave who was supposed to be being punished. But then again, Hermione couldn’t actually see Harry _agreeing_ to their edicts, and she had enough political savvy by this point to realise that they couldn’t really _force_ him, as long as no one had been hurt.

A few moments of silence went by, full of the unspoken words they were all thinking. And then, like a switch being flicked off, Tom leaned back and the almost oppressive presence lightened. Hermione felt like she could breathe again.

“Any other questions?” he asked pleasantly, claws retracted and teeth once more hidden.

“How long’s this been going on for?” asked Seamus soberly. Tom took a few moments to consider it before answering.

“I would say _this_ truly started near the end of May, beginning of June.”

“Almost two months,” someone said in awe, or perhaps horror. Tom shrugged. Hermione wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Two months…and she hadn’t noticed anything. Or at least, she had noticed that _something_ was different, but not _what_. There was silence for a few moments again as they digested that.

“I have a question,” Draco said, leaning forwards. “Don’t tell me that _this_ is why you’ve been arguing against making a blanket rule about sexual use of a slave.” There was a hint of humour on his face, but his tone was deadly serious.

“Not at all,” Tom replied, unruffled by his vehemence. “Well, I suppose that my experience has informed my thoughts that matters should be dealt with on a case by case basis. But no, my main motivation is exactly as I’ve explained to you – the chances of us succeeding in both putting through a regulation like that _and_ policing it are slim. As I’ve said before, the best we can aim for at this point is to forbid masters from using their slaves’ bodies to make them money, and ensuring that the slaves are not left injured by their experiences.”

“And you’re not in any way affected by what you have going with Harry?” Draco asked dubiously. Tom flashed him an intense look, one which Hermione was quite glad wasn’t directed at her. She was surprised that Draco withstood it without flinching – he’d made a huge amount of progress over the time that she’d known him post-slavery, but he still had his moments. From Tom, though, he seemed unbothered. Hermione wondered why…

“I recognise that what I have with Harry is very unlikely to be replicated elsewhere, so no,” he answered coolly. Draco held his gaze for a few moments before and then leaned back, his expression satisfied. Tom let a few moments of silence linger. “Any more questions?” he asked, his eyes gliding over each of their faces. “No? Then perhaps someone should go and tell Harry that the actual campaign meeting can begin.” Again, it was phrased as a suggestion, but the tone made it something that was definitely _not_.

“I’ll go,” a voice said. It took a moment, and the eyes turning to her, for Hermione to realise that she had been the one to speak. Why had she offered? Could she face Harry at this point after having realised that she had been wrong to jump on him in the way she had? Well, she had to face him at some point…. Besides, she wanted to make sure that _he_ was OK with it. With a nod, she got to her feet and left the room without a word.

XXX

Harry was down in his sitting room, going through some finances when Hermione came down.

“Finished?” he asked as levelly as he could. It had hurt _badly_ when she had immediately assumed the worst of him. He’d known that she wouldn’t take it well, but he’d thought she might at least give him the chance to explain. He had considered this approach – how could he not when it had been her way of reacting to everything ‘slave-like’ she had seen? – but had hoped that after everything they had done together, all the changes they had made, she would be able to look past her automatic reaction and realise that he wasn’t a selfish arsehole who would just take what he wanted and damn everyone else. So to know that she hadn’t even _thought_ about all of that before reacting and accusing him of _forcing_ Tom…. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

“Yes,” she said, subdued. “Harry…I’m sorry,” she told him.

“For what?” he asked flatly.

“For jumping to conclusions. I should have known that you wouldn’t…do something like that.” Harry let the silence linger for a few moments before sighing heavily and responding.

“I knew you wouldn’t take it well, but I had hoped that I might be proven wrong. I admit that…it probably wasn’t the best way for you to find out, and I promise I had been thinking about actually telling you, but…” he shrugged.

“I wish you’d told me,” she responded quietly, and then looked away. “But I can’t guarantee I would have reacted any differently, if I’m honest.” Silence hung heavily between them.

“Are you at least satisfied now that everything I do to Tom, I do with his consent?” Hermione nodded sharply.

“He made that pretty plain,” she answered without a hint of a smile. And then she looked up at him, and Harry was surprised by the concern in her eyes. “But are _you_ OK with it?” Harry frowned in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she started, hesitating. “He’s not forcing _you_ , is he? I mean, you want this, don’t you?” Harry couldn’t help letting out an incredulous laugh.

“Hermione, first you think I’m forcing him, and now you think _he’s_ forcing _me_? How would that even be possible? I can understand concern about me forcing him, because I’m the one with the legal, societal, and magical power over him, but the other way around?”

“He could manipulate you, blackmail you. He’s a Slytherin – they don’t have to use physical or magical power to get what they want,” she reminded him with worry in her voice. Harry’s frown returned.

“And what makes you think he could do that to _me_? I’m not some weak-minded, oblivious fool who will easily let him get the upper hand.” His friend opened her mouth to speak, and then looked away, her expression conflicted. “Hermione,” Harry started gently. “Where is this coming from?” She paused for a few moments before answering.

“After you’d left, it was like a mask slipped away. Tom was in control of the discussion from the start. Had he not had the collar around his throat, I wouldn’t have believed that he _was_ a slave. It was…so different from what I’ve been seeing recently. He looked…he looked like the _Dark Lord_. And I started wondering…what if he was like that when we’re not around. What if the act of a submissive, docile slave was just that – an act?”

“And you started worrying that maybe _he_ was actually the one in control?” Harry finished. Hermione nodded silently. Harry couldn’t help a laugh from spilling from his lips, despite the affronted look his best female friend gave him. “I appreciate your concern, Hermione,” he started, still chuckling a little, “but it’s unnecessary. You call it a mask slipping; I call it just a different facet of his personality coming out. And you don’t need to be worried about it.”

“But why?” Hermione asked in frustration. “What am I missing here?” Harry’s chuckles finally calmed and he gave her a half-smile.

“What you’re missing is that Tom submits to me willingly.” He held up a hand to stop the question that clearly was about to emerge from her mouth. “I know I’ve talked to you about this before, but you seem to have forgotten it. You don’t need to know the details anyway – you just need to trust me that I know for certain that both of us are willingly engaging in _all_ aspects of this relationship. So the submissive slave you have seen kneeling at my side, or offering drinks to my guests, that’s not an act. But then neither is the dominant, powerful man who was once the Dark Lord. After all, even before he was Voldemort, Tom Riddle was someone who went from the bottom of the pile as a supposed muggleborn in Slytherin, to its leader in four years. He then went on to receive fealty oaths from a large number of those who would have once disdained him. He may be my slave, but he is also still Tom Riddle. I haven’t broken him, although he _has_ changed.

“Tom submits, but only to me – the only reason he would not normally allow the facet of his personality you saw today out in public is because he knows it would cause problems for me. But here, in our private home, with my permission to act as he wanted, he clearly saw fit to allow it out. That doesn’t mean that he is manipulating me. He would have, if he could have at the beginning, but I knew him too well to allow that – I know we’ve spoken about that before.” Hermione nodded.

“I suppose that’s why I thought that maybe that’s what had happened here,” she offered. Harry shrugged.

“Well, it isn’t.”

“I guess not,” she murmured, looking at him with an odd expression. “Why do you think he did that?” she asked suddenly . “Suddenly let that part of his personality out? Was he trying to scare us, or something?” Harry shrugged.

“I’m not an expert on how Slytherins think,” he reminded her, but then hesitated. “However…I have started to understand how _Tom_ thinks, after so many discussions with him on various topics. If I had to guess, I’d say he was trying to make it very clear that he was not some brow-beaten slave who didn’t dare defy his master for fear of punishment. There may have been other reasons too…but I’d guess that was the main one.” Hermione nodded in acknowledgement, looking thoughtful. “Shall we go upstairs now?” he asked, feeling that this subject had taken up _far_ more time than it really needed to. Hermione nodded and turned towards the door, the same thoughtful look on her face. Harry knew better than to hope that her realisation of how jumping to conclusions was not the right way to do things would stick, but hope springs eternal, after all….

When they entered the sitting room, Harry saw at a glance exactly what Hermione had meant. Tom occupied his chair like a throne, his magic flicking lightly through the room, just emphasising the naturally charismatic, intimidating aura that he emitted. Harry strolled forward, past Hermione who lingered at the door, an uneasy look on her face. He leaned on the back of his chair.

“Done?” he asked lightly, drawing the attention of everyone around the table, including his slave. There were a few nods, but only Tom answered verbally.

“Yes, master,” he said calmly. Harry felt the tendrils of magic retract and saw the subtle signs of him reacting to his master’s presence. Suddenly, he wasn’t a king in a throne any more, but a man in a chair. Harry sent him an amused look, and received a flash of wicked enjoyment in response. Taking his seat, he wasn’t surprised when Tom slid out of his chair to come and kneel next to him, rubbing his head against Harry’s thighs. Harry let his hand fall to pet his slave absently as he looked around. The expressions around the table ranged from bewildered, to surprised, the people around the table clearly disoriented at the sudden shift. The only two exceptions were Draco and Blaise who, as Slytherin graduates themselves, evidently recognised the power-play Tom had been doing, and were showing more amusement than anything else.

“Alright, now _that’s_ sorted, shall we get started?” he suggested. Hearing a few murmurs of agreement, he looked down at his slave. “Tom, can you get drinks for everyone, please?” he asked, though knew Tom would recognise it as the order it was.

“Of course, master,” Tom murmured in agreement and then stood to get the drinks orders. While he was away, they had a quick exchange of developments which had happened since their last meeting. When it came around to Hermione, she bit her lip looking nervous for some reason.

“I have something to report,” she started quietly, her expression catching the attention of everyone around the table. “Three…three suicides were reported this week. Suicides of current slaves,” she clarified, seeing the confusion on a few faces. A few gasps and other noises of disquiet were heard. Harry swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling nauseous. _He_ had put these people there.

“Who were they?” Neville asked from across the table. Hermione seemed reticent to say, but Harry couldn’t help noticing how her eyes drifted to the only former slave around the table. He wasn’t the only one, either, and more eyes looked at Draco. Noticing all those eyes on him, the blond paled and swallowed.

“My family was involved, weren’t they?” he managed to choke out. Hermione nodded slowly.

“Draco,” she started, her voice full of a mixture of pity and compassion. “I’m so sorry.” He didn’t seem to hear.

“Who?” he just asked, seeming to be on the edge of losing his grip on his emotions. Hermione hesitated. “Who?!” he demanded roughly.

“Your father,” she told him, the words seeming to escape her without her permission. Draco sat back in his chair, the sound of a wounded animal whining in his throat. “And Mulciber. And Dolohov.” Now the dam had been unblocked, she seemed unable to stop speaking. “They were all facing more than twenty years of slavery and-“ She was cut off by Draco pushing himself abruptly to his feet and striding towards the door. Harry quickly got to his feet and moved after him.

“Draco?” Harry called and his voice brought the blond up short, halfway down the stairs. He didn’t turn around.

“I can’t deal with this. Not tonight,” he said quietly, the words sounding forced out and strangled. 

“Understandable,” Harry murmured. “But don’t forget that you have friends. If you need us, we’ll be here for you. _I’ll_ be here for you.” Harry could only see his back, but he saw the small, stiff nod. And then Draco kept moving. A few moments later, Harry heard the distinct sound of the floo. Tom appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a frown on his face as he looked towards the sitting room.

“What happened?” he asked, walking up the steps towards Harry. With a sigh, Harry explained.

“Draco’s father is dead.” Tom’s eyes widened.

“How did _that_ happen?” Harry shrugged.

“Apparently a suicide. Hermione hasn’t given any details, just that Dolohov and Mulciber were also dead.” Tom shook his head.

“It surprises me that Lucius would have taken such a step – he’s always been a lot more concerned with his own survival, and I suppose his family’s survival, than anything else.” Harry shrugged again.

“I don’t know, but I can imagine that he didn’t have much to live for – he’s sentenced to more than twenty years as a slave, and even after being released, he’d have to rebuild _everything_ from scratch.” Tom nodded, a rueful expression on his face.

“Not to mention that he’s just as pretty as Draco and has a _lot_ more enemies from his political games during the years before my return.” Harry conceded the point with a grimace. He hadn’t thought about that but…what were the chances that Lucius had ended up with someone decent? Trying to distract himself, he looked over at his slave and the three trays of drinks he was carrying – one between his hands and two levitated over his shoulders. Harry couldn’t help chuckling slightly and shaking his head in admiration.

“I don’t know how you can do that, but your expertise with wandless magic clearly makes some jobs a lot easier!” Tom smiled.

“Practice, master. That’s all it is.” Realising that Tom had paused on the step below his and his face was at the perfect level to kiss, Harry briefly took advantage of their position, his actions almost risking the tray between Tom’s hands spilling. Fortunately, no harm was done and Harry felt the nausea he’d had within his belly starting to recede at the positive feelings running through him.

Entering the room, he found a discussion going on about the suicides. Harry quickly retook his seat and Tom started serving the drinks.

“…can you be sure they were suicides? What if their masters killed them?” Dean was asking. Hermione shook her head.

“The contract the masters have to sign whenever they take possession of a slave would react if the death was as a direct consequence of one of the master’s actions.”

“That wouldn’t necessarily cover actions which drove their slaves to the point of _wanting_ to die, though, would it?” Blaise offered. Hermione hesitated.

“No…I suppose it wouldn’t. The original creators of the contracts and legal rules weren’t exactly concerned about _emotional_ damage, after all…”

“Well, if nothing else,” Harry interjected firmly, “this proves why our efforts here are so important.” Looking around, he saw nothing but resolve in all the faces around the table. Feeling pride that he had been able to work with a group of such dedicated individuals, he leant forward to get down to business.

XXX

The floo flared and Harry looked up at it. He and Tom were relaxing on the couch in a position that was becoming more and more common – Harry sitting up and reading, Tom lying down with his head on Harry’s lap, both of them reading. Draco’s head appeared in the fire.

“Draco,” he said, leaning forwards. Tom shifted off his lap and propped himself up on his elbow, looking at the fire with interest. “What can I do for you?” Draco’s eyes shifted uneasily, looking at Harry and then glancing at Tom before shifting back to Harry.

“Can we…talk?” he asked hesitantly. “Me and you?” he clarified. Harry cast a quick look at Tom and his slave got the message.

“I’ll go and practise transforming, with your leave, master,” Tom said respectfully, sliding off the couch to stand before Harry. Nodding, Harry gave his consent.

“Call me if you have any problems,” he added.

“Yes, master,” Tom acknowledged before turning and disappearing out of the room. Harry looked back at the fire, spotting the relieved expression on the blond’s face.

“Come on through, Draco,” Harry invited. The other man nodded and then his face disappeared a few moments before the fire flared once more. Stepping through with the grace of someone who had grown up going through floos, Draco entered the sitting room. He looked a bit uneasy, perhaps uncertain about whether he was doing the right thing here. Harry stood up from his couch. “Drink?” he offered. Biting his lip for a moment, the other man finally decided that a bit of Dutch courage was definitely required and opted for a firewhisky.

A few minutes of silence later, they were both ensconced in the armchairs by the fire, the former slave hesitating only for an instant before taking a seat. Draco stared into the flames for a few moments before starting to say what was on his mind. Harry didn’t rush things – either he would speak, or he wouldn’t. Maybe just sitting by the fire sipping at a glass of old Ogden’s was what Draco needed and, in the absence of anything more urgent pulling at his time, Harry was happy to give him that. Finally, though, Draco started to speak, still staring at the fire.

“Is it bad that I’m relieved it wasn’t my mother?” Draco asked finally. Surprised by the question, Harry took a few moments to formulate an answer.

“I don’t think any emotions are _bad_ in and of themselves,” he offered eventually. “Do you know why you feel that way?” he asked neutrally in return. Draco sighed.

“Father was…I used to look up to him,” he started in a sadly reminiscent, wistful tone. “When I was a child, I grew up looked after by Mother and house elves. Father was distant, I suppose. I only really spoke to him when he was especially pleased or displeased with me. So, I suppose, I built him up into a hero figure in my mind. He seemed like this…untouchable statue whose approval I desperately craved. A few years before I went to Hogwarts, he started taking more interest in my life, taking me aside to give me advice or teach me things. He told me stories, anecdotes, to illustrate his lessons. Tales of his exploits at the Ministry, his fight against the mudbloods and the filth infecting our world.”

Harry might have expected Draco to spit the words out with the same fervour as he had when they had been at school, but the new Draco just said them as matter-of-factly as he had been saying everything else. “He also told me other stories.” Here, Draco turned to look at Harry, the light from the flames making shadows play interestingly across his face. “Stories of the Death Eaters. Of the Dark Lord. Stories full of pride…and nostalgia. I asked Mother about some of the stories and while she didn’t _contradict_ Father – she never did that – she did tell me other stories, ones which were more fearful. Of course, I didn’t listen to her – she was just my mother, after all, and Father was _Father_.” He sighed again and looked back at the flames.

“When I first met you, you seemed to hold your father in…very high regard,” Harry offered after some silence had passed. Draco nodded.

“I worshipped him,” he admitted. “And that didn’t change until I saw him writhe beneath the wand of the Dark Lord.” Harry had an idea of why Draco hadn’t wanted Tom to be there – although his slave had come to hate his former alter-ego as much as, or perhaps more than anyone else, Draco would probably not feel comfortable saying these things to his face.

“What changed?” Harry asked, gently prompting him when he fell silent. Draco flicked his eyes towards him.

“Everything,” he said simply. “The man I had seen as untouchable, the honourable knight led by the Dark Lord to fight for the good of our society had been reduced to a screaming figure scrabbling in the dirt. My world rocked on its axis. Suddenly, the stories I remembered Mother telling me came to the fore, the stories Father had told me being coloured by my new view of him, and of the creature he had sworn himself to. And it was soon after that when I started hating him.”

“Your father, or Voldemort?” Harry asked, startled. Draco flicked his hand dismissively.

“Both? But my father. Definitely my father. Due to his choices, I realised that I had no way out. I had to take the mark, to achieve the impossible task the Dark Lord had set me, if I didn’t want to see my parents dead, and myself taking my father’s place under _his_ wand.”

“You seemed pretty proud of the mark at first,” Harry observed, remembering back to spying on them in the compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Draco shrugged.

“I didn’t know what to think,” he confided. “There I was with the mark on my arm which had always stood for bravery and heroism, yet my experiences earlier that summer had shattered my confidence in the veracity of my beliefs. And yet, being among my friends, all of whom definitely believed in the Cause…I started to doubt if I had been correct to doubt. Their admiration rekindled my pride in the mark and my task. Then the actual immensity of the task took its toll, driving me to desperate measures. And then there was truly no way out, if there had ever really been.” Harry didn’t need reminding, the memories of what had happened during their Sixth year still fairly clear in his mind. The conversation dwindled and died, silence taking its place.

Harry saw that Draco’s glass had been emptied and summoned the bottle of firewhisky, offering it with raised eyebrows. Draco got a considering look on his face before holding out his glass, taking it back with a nod of thanks when Harry had filled it. He continued staring at the flames for a while.

“I suppose I’m glad it’s not Mother because she has always done her best to protect and support me, even when I disdained her for it. She must have despaired, seeing me trying to copy my father in so many ways, when she knew where that would end.” He shook his head. “Where Father raised me to throw myself to the wolves, to become a wolf myself, Mother tried to show me how vicious the wolves could be. I have never seen her as angry as she was the night I was marked.” He sighed, swirling the amber coloured liquid in her glass. “But I still can’t believe it. I still can’t believe that he chose to _die_ …but that doesn’t mean I can’t understand it.” He looked up at Harry, his grey eyes haunted. “I saw him.” Harry frowned.

“Who? Your father?” Draco nodded.

“His body.” He shuddered. “I should have never asked. I wish my last memory of my father could have been the last time I saw him alive, even if it was with him as a slave in the bowels of the Ministry.”

“It was bad?” Harry guessed. Draco looked sick.

“Worse than I was when I first came,” he admitted with painful horror. “Far worse. I don’t blame him for…for giving up when he had more than twenty years of _that_ to look forward to.” Harry didn’t either, Draco’s words painting far too vivid a picture.

“And that’s what we’re fighting against,” Harry reminded him gently after a few moments of silence had passed. “Every change we make, will reduce the possibility that this will happen again.” Draco was silent, swirling the last bit of his firewhisky around the glass before tipping it down his throat and standing.

“I hope so,” he murmured in response. Standing in front of the fire, he paused and turned back to Harry. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Harry asked, not feeling like had done anything except supply Draco with alcohol.

“For listening. I…I needed someone to hear me, someone who didn’t really know my father, or much about my childhood. Severus knows…knew my father too well – they went to school together and were in the Death Eaters together. He was part of my father’s life in a way I never was. It makes it a bit difficult to talk to him about all of this.” He shrugged. “So anyway, thanks.” Harry gave him a half-smile.

“No problem. I’m always happy to give my friends time.”

“Friends?” asked Draco, with a mixture of surprise and hope in his voice. Harry nodded.

“After everything, I figure we’ve basically become friends. I know we’ve been enemies for years, but so much water has gone under the bridge between that time and now, hasn’t it?” Draco nodded, and a smile broke out on his face, small, but obvious. He walked towards Harry, and hesitantly, stretched a hand out.

“Friends?” he asked tentatively in a replay of the first time they had met properly. Unlike that time, though, Harry smiled and stretched out his own hand to give Draco’s a firm shake.

“Friends,” he agreed. Dropping the handshake, Draco suddenly bit his lip.

“What about Tom, though?” he asked. Harry looked at him in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s kind of becoming a friend too.”

“You can be friends with both of us,” Harry told him, feeling like it was obvious. Draco shrugged.

“Sure, but…he needs friends of his own, doesn’t he? At the moment, everyone he meets is _your_ friend first, unless things have changed since I was here.” At that, Harry paused – it wasn’t exactly wrong. And Draco was right – it would be healthier if Tom had his own circle, and wasn’t just brought into Harry’s.

“You may have a point,” he responded slowly. “Thanks for drawing my attention to it,” he said after a few more minutes of thought. “But in this case, you can still be friends with both of us without a problem, I’m sure,” he concluded. Draco gave him a long look and then a short nod.

“Alright,” he acknowledged. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at the next campaign meeting,” he offered with determination.

“See you,” responded Harry, a moment before Draco flooed away. Hmm, he had something to think about, didn’t he?

XXX

Arriving home after another day at the Ministry, Harry was confused to walk into the kitchen and see that his slave had, apparently, decided to change his fashion style a little.

“Tom, why are you wearing a _hat_?” he asked incredulously. It was a wizard’s hat – one like they had to wear at Hogwarts for official events, wide brim and pointy tip included. Tom avoided his eyes.

“Good evening, master. I thought a change would be a good idea,” Tom said, avoiding Harry’s eyes by bowing his head briefly before turning back to his task, and speaking in a falsely bright tone.

“Tom,” Harry replied, amusement in his voice, but also warning – Tom knew he wasn’t allowed to lie, not even in the small things, not even so transparently. His slave sighed.

“I had a…setback in my animagus training,” he admitted. Harry was first concerned, but then dismissed the feeling – if Tom had been badly affected by it in some way, he wouldn’t be cooking dinner in the kitchen with a hat on and trying to lie about it. Harry’s second reaction was, therefore, amusement – it was much likely to be something embarrassing. He toyed with the idea of letting Tom off the hook…but his slave _had_ tried to lie about it. Had he just admitted the problem straight off, Harry would have been inclined to just fight back his own curiosity. As the matter stood, though…

“Take the hat off, Tom. Let me see,” he ordered lazily. Tom hesitated for a moment, turning to fully face his master. Seeing no signs of Harry relenting in his gaze, he sighed again, bit his lip and then lifted his hands to the hat. Removing it slowly, he avoided Harry’s eyes, a light blush coming to his cheeks. Harry was torn between laughing at him and cooing – two black-furred ears stuck up from Tom’s head, and it looked absolutely adorable. He decided on the latter, knowing it would rile the other man more than laughter. “You look so cute,” he teased. In response, the ears moved upright – Harry hadn’t realised that they were actually drooping slightly – and Tom got a stormy look on his face.

“I’m not _cute_ ,” he hissed, his eyes flashing. Harry, not the slightest bit intimidated, just chuckled.

“You most definitely are,” he insisted. “A bit like one of those Japanese anime characters some of the girls at school seemed to be obsessed with.” The comparison was clearly not appreciated if the filthy glare sent Harry’s way was any judge, but Tom held his tongue and just started dishing up. When he came to the table with the plates of food, he set Harry’s down as carefully as normal, despite his irritation.

“So, how was your day?” he asked, clearly trying to change the subject. Harry decided to allow it – he was pleased that Tom had continued with his usual respect, though no doubt he had been tempted to let his annoyance be shown through his actions.

“Not bad,” he replied cheerfully. “We’re going to be starting our final assessments next week so the instructors are taking some time to revise the material covered so far.” He shook his head in wonder. “I hadn’t realised how much we’d actually covered until we started to go over it again.”

“Do you feel like you are ready for the assessments?” Tom asked, his tone back to normal. Harry shrugged.

“Pretty much, I guess? They can’t be worse than the NEWTs surely, and I felt those went fairly well. We’ll see once the results come out of course but…” He trailed off.

“Speaking of,” Tom commented thoughtfully. “You should be getting those through any day now. It’s been, what, two months since you did them?”

“Almost,” Harry agreed. “Knowing my luck, though, they’ll arrive on my birthday. Actually, that was a question I wanted to ask. I normally spend my birthday with the Weasleys – Molly always enjoys catering for large numbers. But I don’t know whether you would be open to joining us or not, or whether you had another idea of how to celebrate.” Tom looked at him for a long moment.

“What do you want, Harry? It’s your birthday, after all.” Harry sighed, wistfulness running through him.

“I would like to spend my birthday surrounded by my friends and family, and yes, that does include my lover. I’ve spent so many birthdays where I was an unwanted burden on my muggle relatives that I cherish the chance to be among those who truly want me there.” He then fixed his eyes on the red orbs of his lover. “But I don’t want you to be completely uncomfortable – if you’re uneasy, I will be too.” Tom nodded slowly, more of an acknowledgement of Harry’s words than agreement.

“Would the Weasleys even accept me? I wouldn’t want to cause any problems, especially not on your birthday.” Harry chuckled.

“Actually, my birthday would probably be the best time to reintroduce you to the other Weasleys – everyone will be on their best behaviour, knowing that Molly wouldn’t take it kindly if one of her children ruin the day for me. Even Molly herself is likely to be a little more circumspect than normal in deference to that. Besides, by this point Hermione has no doubt told Ron about our relationship, so there’ll be two people there who will at least be neutral, if not supportive.” Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Do you think Granger will be _supportive_? After the way she behaved when she found out at the campaign meeting?” Harry chuckled again.

“Oh yes.” He smiled incredulously. “Do you know what she said to me after you’d been answering their questions?”

“I shudder to think,” commented Tom dryly.

“She asked if _I_ was OK with the whole thing. Somehow, because you’d dropped the slave persona they’re used to seeing from you, she suddenly thought that maybe you were actually the one pulling the strings in the background and blackmailing me, or something.” Tom’s eyes widened and a short laugh was surprised out of him.

“She honestly thought that?” Harry shrugged.

“Yeah. I think your ‘dark lord’ channelling scared her slightly, and be honest – that was probably your plan to begin with, wasn’t it?”

“Which, intimidating Granger, or manipulating you from the background?” Tom clarified, his eyes slightly narrowed.

“Both?” Harry responded. Tom was silent for a few moments and then shrugged elegantly.

“I won’t deny that I was intending to seem intimidating – it seemed like the best way to ensure they took me seriously, and not assume that I had been brainwashed by the collar or by you. And…” he hesitated. “I wouldn’t say that my plan was ever to make you into a puppet to dance at my choosing – I was too concerned with becoming free for that to really build as a plan. But I suppose that had I discovered very early on that the collar was unbeatable, I might have attempted to go down that route, yes.” He looked up at Harry, a slightly concerned glint in his eyes, like he was worried the confession might draw his master’s ire. It didn’t. Harry was actually more surprised that the idea _hadn’t_ occurred to Tom, than he would have been angry if it had. If Tom ever tried to enact it, that was a different question, but he doubted the likelihood of that ever happening. Not now, at least, with all the water that had gone under the bridge.

“I’m not angry,” he reassured his slave, observing the slight relaxation of muscles which had tensed in anticipation of his displeasure. “You wouldn’t be you if you hadn’t tried to escape your fate by one means or another. But I know you wouldn’t do anything like that now,” he said in full confidence.

“Of course not, master,” Tom hurried to agree. “I have chosen to be here – why would I try to change things?” Harry just smiled at him.

“So, shall I take all that as you being willing to accompany me to the Weasleys?” he asked, returning to the main topic.

“If it is your will…” Tom offered and Harry shook his head.

“No, no deflection. Do you think you’d be comfortable enough to join me, or do I need to tell Molly that I’ll only be joining them for part of the day?” Tom hesitated for a moment and then sighed.

“I can bear it,” he replied in resignation. “I think.” Harry couldn’t help a smile coming to his face. The idea of everyone being together for his birthday was something he had long desired. Now he just had to work on the Weasley side of things.

They ate the rest of the meal in a companionable silence, both enjoying the taste of the food and the time together without needing to fill it with pointless words. Afterwards, as was their wont, they moved to the sitting room, taking up their normal positions with Harry at his desk and Tom beside him on the floor. Before he started in on his revision for the Auror assessments, however, Harry looked down at his slave’s head (with it’s black-furred ears) with a thoughtful mien.

“Tom,” he started, his slave lifting his head so they could make eye contact. “By the end of this week, I’d like you to have chosen some sort of activity you could do out of the house which will bring you in contact with other people.” Tom’s brow furrowed.

“Master?” he asked in confusion.

“A club or something. I don’t know – painting? Theatre, perhaps – Merlin knows you’d be a good actor. Or some type of sports, if you prefer. Just something that will be with others.”

“Of course I will do as you instruct, master, but…may I ask _why_?” Tom replied slowly. Harry shrugged, staring off at the fire.

“It was just something Draco said…. You…. Because of your status as a slave in the Wizarding world, you can’t exactly go out and meet people there. So almost all the people you come into contact with are there primarily for me – my friends. I think it would be good for you to have some friends of your own. Or, if not friends, at least people you can talk to who aren’t connected to me in any way.” Tom looked at him, an unreadable look on his face. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then clearly decided to go through with it regardless of whatever thought had crossed his mind.

“You know I’m happy with the status quo, don’t you master?” Harry shrugged again.

“For now,” he agreed. “But it’s not healthy for me to be the only person you speak to regularly, and with anyone else of our acquaintance, either your status as a slave or your former identity rather gets in the way of forming easy relationships. I mean, we’ll continue going to the munches, but even there, we’re ‘Harry&Tom’ – it would be hard for either of us to be just ‘Harry’ or ‘Tom’.” Looking thoughtful, Harry’s slave turned his gaze to the fire for a moment, before returning it to Harry’s eyes and shrugging slightly.

“If you would like me to do this, then I will. I can’t say I see the point to it, but you’re the master. I’ll go out tomorrow and see what sort of activities are around in the neighbourhood. Should I look for free activities, or do I have a budget?” Harry waved his hand as if flicking away a fly.

“Money’s not a problem. If you think something’s a lot more expensive than I would expect, then you can check with me before signing up, but otherwise don’t worry about it.”

“And do you have any restrictions on time?” Harry paused for more thought at this one.

“I mean, I’d prefer you go during the day,” he replied slowly, “so we have the evenings together as normal…. I do recognise, though, that most adult classes are probably in the evenings because most adults would be at work during the day. I guess that as long as it’s not using more than _one_ evening a week, and you make sure that your tasks at home are completed before going out, then that would be fine.” Tom nodded slowly.

“Yes, master,” he acknowledged and that was that. Harry nodded quickly and then turned to his work.

At some point during the evening of studying in the quiet room, Harry found his hand moving to stroke Tom’s head as normal. It was a little startling to feel warm, fluffy ears poking out of that silky hair, but he found that they felt quite nice to his fingers. They also had an added benefit, which he discovered after a few moments of petting – apparently, they were very sensitive. Tom pushed into Harry’s hand more than normal, his eyes half-closed and an expression of bliss on his face. Harry almost expected him to start purring at any moment, but unfortunately that didn’t happen. Nonetheless, Harry took almost unholy pleasure over that evening and the next couple of days in reducing Tom to a puddle of relaxation at regular intervals.

When, a few days later, Harry came home to find that Tom had succeeded in reversing the transformation, he had to admit to some sadness. Still, he consoled himself, it was likely that Tom’s ears would be as sensitive in his fully transformed form, so he would just have to wait for that to happen.

XXX

“Mr Potter?” asked the woman who had just come through the floo using the temporary password Harry had owled her in preparation for their meeting. She had black, curly hair and brown eyes. “I’m Healer Lerouge.” She held out a hand to shake and Harry took it, noting her firm, no-nonsense grip. She had a faint French accent, but not even as much as Fleur had had before marrying Bill.

“How do you do, Healer Lerouge? As you’ve guessed, I’m Harry Potter, and that’s Tom over there,” he introduced, his slave standing just inside the doorway of the sitting room.

“May I get you a drink, Healer Lerouge?” Tom asked politely after dipping his head in acknowledgement of his master’s words. The woman darted a look at Harry, her expression uncertain, and then back at Tom.

“A coffee would be fantastique,” she said eventually. Tom nodded at the order and then looked at Harry.

“Master?” he asked.

“Tea please, Tom. Earl Grey today, I think.”

“Yes, master,” he replied, and then disappeared through the doorway. Harry smiled at the healer and, with a gesture, invited her to sit. She did so, sinking into the chair, fidgeting slightly with her robes. After a few moments, her posture settled into an elegant position which she had perhaps been taught as a child. Actually, come to think of it, the Beauxbatons contingent had all had a similar way of sitting – back straight, head elegantly balanced on their necks, hands placed just so. Perhaps they had a deportment class?

“I hope that your journey wasn’t too tiring,” Harry expressed politely. The silence was awkward, but until Tom was back, he didn’t see any point in actually starting the discussion. Healer Lerouge gave him a quick, polite smile before her face returned to its neutrality.

“International portkeys are never pleasant, but they certainly save time compared to the non-magical methods of travel.” Harry had to give her that one – his own experience with magical means of travel had left him with the conclusion that one had to exchange comfort for efficiency. Silence fell once more. In the end, Harry decided to ask the question which had been in the back of his mind since he had heard her introduction.

“Pardon me for asking,” Harry prefaced politely, “but I thought you were a Master of the Mind Arts, not a healer.” The woman flicked a look at him.

“I am both,” she replied, her accent coming through a little stronger on the final syllable as she mis-pronounced the ‘th’ as an ‘s’. “I am, in fact, a Mind Healer, but I find the title a little cumbersome for general use.” Harry had to admit that, had he been in the same position, he’d have probably chosen to do the same. It was a bit of a mouthful, after all. Fortunately, they were saved from making any more awkward conversation by Tom coming back with the drinks. Lerouge thanked Tom as he handed her the coffee, her eyes flicking to his neck and then away. Harry accepted his own cup with a smile and then Tom took his place at Harry’s feet. Out of respect for their company, Harry refrained from sliding his hand into his slave’s hair as he would normally do. Instead, he just cleared his throat.

“Right, Healer Lerouge, you wanted to speak about that, uh…” Knowing he would make a muck of the term, he looked down at Tom. “What was that name again?”

“Adlfictus Tuitio syndrome, master,” he answered easily.

“That. Could you explain why exactly you’re approaching _us_ about it? What makes you think we have any experience with it?” She looked at him with an eyebrow raised. Harry let himself feel a moment of jealousy – why did everyone seem capable of doing that except for him? Then he forced himself to pay attention as she spoke.

“I know Potions Master Snape professionally. When he took Draco Malfoy as an apprentice, and found that he had suffered from Adlfictus Tuitio syndrome, and had been helped by your slave, he asked me to examine his apprentice’s mind to ensure no lasting damage had been done.”

“I see,” Harry replied thoughtfully. “Couldn’t he do that himself?” She shrugged elegantly.

“Master Snape is a Master of Occlumency, not Legilimency. I suspect he wanted to be thorough.”

“And?” Harry asked, seeing the tense neck muscles of his slave, knowing that the man had been worried about this very prospect. “Was there any damage?” Lerouge eyed him for a moment.

“I will not give any details,” she started slowly, “as that would potentially breach Mr Malfoy’s privacy. However, I will say that I was interested to meet the man who had treated him because I have never seen someone come out of a mind entrapment as serious as that which Mr Malfoy suffered, in such good condition.” Harry felt his mouth curve at the corners and couldn’t resist reaching down to briefly squeeze Tom’s shoulder to show his pride in what Tom had done. Tom lifted his head and twisted to look at Harry just as briefly, the flash of red conveying his relief.

“So your purpose is just to find out what Tom did, then? Why?” Before Harry would let her speak to his slave, he wanted to be sure that she wasn’t there for some nefarious purpose. It seemed unlikely by this point, but better safe than sorry – it was always more effective to shut the door _before_ the horse had bolted.

“While Adlfictus Tuitio syndrome is not exactly _common_ , there are always a few cases a year in the world, and the potential risks it poses sufferers are significant. As a community of Mind Healers, any avenue of improvement of the chances of those suffering from it is worth exploring.” Harry nodded slowly. She seemed honest – he hadn’t had any gut instinct telling him not to tentatively trust her.

“Tom?” he asked, looking down at his kneeling slave. Having previously discussed the possibility of him leaving the room, the red-eyed man knew exactly what he was asking without him needing to say anything more. Tom looked up at him and then nodded. Harry flicked his eyes back to the healer. “Would you be opposed to me leaving you two to chat for a while? Tom’s the one with the information, anyway.” The woman looked at him a bit incredulously, but then shrugged.

“Sure, why not?” she responded, almost disbelieving. Harry smiled at her and stood, taking his cup of Earl Grey with him – no point in wasting a good cup of tea, after all.

“Call if you need anything – I won’t be too far,” he said as a final reassurance, or warning, as he left the room.

XXX

Left alone with the healer, Tom waited for her to make the first move. He and Harry had agreed that Harry should leave the room unless either participant was uncomfortable with the idea, as it would facilitate conversation. Especially since Lerouge seemed to be uneasy with the slave aspect. Not to mention that Harry would be terribly bored by an esoteric discussion the likes of the one which he and the healer were probably about to have. 

“So, um, Mr Riddle,” she started.

“Tom’s fine,” he interrupted briefly, his tone polite. It wasn’t like had any claim to his surname anymore, even if he wanted it. She eyed him for a moment and then seemed to decide to go with it.

“Tom then. Are you…alright with me asking questions? You mustn’t feel obliged if you do not want to.” Tom shrugged, allowing his eyes to drift up to hold her gaze. Lerouge flinched briefly, at their colour, perhaps? Then, a small frown appearing between her brows, she opened her mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again, looking conflicted.

“Why would I not be willing to answer your questions? You wouldn’t be here in that case.” She hesitated for a moment.

“I just thought…maybe your, your _master_ had ordered you to…” Ah. Tom tilted his head consideringly. Perhaps that was the problem.

“Would it help if I sat in a chair and we spoke as if we were equals in the eyes of society?”

“We _are_ equals in the eyes of any society but this backwards-“ she cut her fierce statement off, even as her eyes flashed fire. Looking away for a moment, she returned her gaze to Tom a moment later after taking an obvious breath. “If you do not think it could cause problems for you later, then please do,” she invited more quietly. Tom shook his head.

“Harry won’t mind,” he said, deliberately using his master’s name. If the searching look she gave him was any indication, she had caught it and it was confusing her. Standing up gracefully, he sat in the chair Harry had so recently vacated and relaxed, meeting Healer Lerouge’s eyes squarely even as he placed his hands on the chair arm rests and crossed his legs at the ankle.

“Before we start, may I ask something?” She made a go-ahead gesture. “ _Severus_ thought that I’d left something in Draco’s mind intentionally, didn’t he? He wanted you to make sure I hadn’t.” Healer Lerouge hesitated for a moment and then nodded slowly.

“I believe that it was a concern of his,” she admitted. Tom wanted to feel angry, offended at his suspicions being proven true, but he couldn’t – it wasn’t like he hadn’t done such things before. Although it hadn’t happened very often, he _had_ planted hidden compulsions in an enemy’s head before, and then allowed them to ‘escape’, only for the compulsions to kick in at the worst possible moment and cause them to kill someone important who Voldemort wouldn’t have had access to at another time. It took time and effort, as well as an open mind from his victim, but _Severus_ was valid in his concern about Draco’s vulnerability. Still, he hadn’t done it, and took exception to his erstwhile servant’s unfounded suspicion. He banished the thoughts from his mind for the time being, though – the healer had answered his question; now it was time for him to answer hers.

“Now, shall we begin?”

XXX

Half an hour later, they had finally reached the end of their discussion. Tom hadn’t realised how much he missed discussing complex magical theory with someone. It wasn’t the same thing with Harry – there he was the teacher. That wasn’t to say he resented his role there in any way, in fact something warmed inside knowing that he could share his hard-earned knowledge with his master; that he could benefit his master in some way. It was just a different situation. This was a lively debate which had started with relating the events of what had happened, and then had developed into questioning why certain actions had worked better than others, and how they could have been improved further.

Tom was glad that Draco hadn’t suffered permanently from either his condition or the treatment Tom had given, but he knew that one reason for that was because Draco had already been an accomplished occlumens, and thus was better able to rebuild his mind afterwards than someone who had been merely messing around with the Art and had got trapped by their own carelessness. While there was part of Tom that scoffed and said that it served them right for not recognising their limits, there was another part of him that pointed out the hypocrisy of that statement – hadn’t Tom done exactly that? Pushed far beyond his limits and caused horrific damage to both himself and others?

Finally, Healer Lerouge leant back in her seat with a sigh, a satisfied look on her face.

“Thank you, I enjoyed that.”

“My pleasure,” Tom replied, unsurprised that it came out completely genuinely. “It’s been a while since I had a debate that challenging,” he admitted. She gave him a curious look.

“When was the last time?” she asked, then drew back and covered her mouth. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to pry.” Tom shook his head, waving her apology off.

“I think the last time was when I travelled the world, learning different magics from all sorts of people.”

“Legilimency being one of them,” she guessed. Tom shook his head again.

“I’ve been doing a form of Legilimency since I was a child,” he confided. Her eyebrows went up.

“A natural legilimens?” she asked in surprise. He nodded.

“Apparently,” he agreed.

“Did you never think to develop it into a Mastery?” she asked. “If you don’t mind the question, that is.” Tom shrugged.

“I did develop it a bit when travelling, but gaining some sort of qualification wasn’t my motivation at the time. Now…” he gestured towards his neck self-depreciatingly. She looked at him with something that wasn’t pity, not exactly, but more like…commiseration.

“If the circumstances were different, I’d offer you an apprenticeship in a heartbeat,” she said regretfully. Tom nodded in understanding, his heart sinking despite himself.

“Because I’m a slave.” She nodded.

“The chances of your master, however nice he seems, allowing you to spend so much time in the company of another…” Tom frowned.

“Wait,” he replied slowly. “Do you mean that it’s not that me being a slave automatically excludes me, but that you think my master wouldn’t give _permission_?” The healer looked at him with some surprise.

“You being a…a slave doesn’t make you any less worthy, or any less accomplished. I would have thought our discussion earlier had shown that I don’t consider you any lesser because of something around your neck,” she said with some asperity. “Besides, France does not recognise slavery, so if you resided with me, in all ways you would be treated as if you were free. It’s that your master would most likely not agree that presents the real issue.” Tom felt hope suddenly rise within him.

“Let’s try him,” he suggested. She looked at him in concern.

“Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly. “Even _asking_ might be considered a punishable offence.” Tom made a dismissive gesture with his hands.

“You don’t know my master,” he told her. “He would never punish me just for _asking_.” She looked dubious but evidently decided that if he wanted to take the risk, she wasn’t going to stop him.

“As you like.” Tom stood and went to the door.

“Master?” he called down the passageway. Hearing the sound of furniture moving in the kitchen, he gathered that his master had heard him. Returning to the sitting area, he decided to take his normal place on the floor – although he knew Harry wouldn’t have minded him sitting during his discussion with the healer, he was also aware that the man preferred him to kneel in his presence. Harry entered the room a few moments later with a pleasant smile on his face.

“Have you gained all the information you wanted, Healer Lerouge?” he asked politely as he took his seat again.

“I have, thank you,” she replied, just as politely. Then she hesitated, looking at Tom. Clearly, she wasn’t sure whether she should broach the topic, or let him do it. He was slightly nervous despite his earlier reassurances. Logically, he knew that Harry wouldn’t have a problem with him pursuing further learning – in fact, he had been encouraging him to do so – but…there was still a part of him that feared asking might displease his master. Still, deciding to take the bull by the horns, he twisted around so he was looking up at his master’s curious emerald green eyes.

“Master, Healer Lerouge would like to offer me an apprenticeship in the Mind Arts, but she is concerned that you might not approve,” he stated, with the faint hint of a question at the end. Harry’s eyebrows went up in surprise for a moment, and then returned to their usual position as his expression became thoughtful. His eyes flicked to the healer.

“Would you mind if we speak privately for a moment?” he asked politely.

“Not at all, Mr Potter,” she demurred. “Please, take your time.” If Tom had to guess what was going through her mind from her expression, he would venture to say that it was mostly surprise that Harry hadn’t rejected the suggestion out of hand, or become immediately angry.

“ **What would be the ultimate aim? For you to become a Mind Healer**?” Harry asked Tom, switching to Parseltongue. Tom paused for a moment – that hadn’t been what he was thinking…but it certainly held possibility.

“ **Would that be useful to you, master**?” he asked tentatively. Harry took a moment to consider it.

“ **Perhaps. A more general healer is probably more useful, but you’ve already proven the use of having someone skilled in the Mind Arts around…. I would have some conditions, but I don’t see why you couldn’t do this if you wanted to. Do you**?” Tom hesitated for a moment.

“ **Yes, I do,** ” he decided finally. “ **I enjoy learning, and although learning from the library is good, I’ve also missed being able to discuss new understandings with others**.” Harry smiled self-depreciatingly.

“ **I know I’m not able to give you that,** ” he commented with a hint of vulnerability. Tom scowled.

“ **Don’t start on that again,** ” he warned his master. “ **You offer me many things that others cannot – do not castigate yourself for being unable to give me this when you have only just finished your NEWTs. I have had many years of learning on you, and that is no failing of yours.** ” Harry looked down at him with eyes so full of love they almost made pink rise to Tom’s cheeks. Had they been alone, he was sure that he would currently be being kissed senseless, but as it was, neither of them were keen to advertise every detail of their private lives.

“ **You are a treasure,** ” Harry said finally. Then, looking up at the healer, he switched back to English. “If I agree to this, I would want Tom to continue living here – I would not be happy with him living away from me for several years, and I am currently committed here, so could not move. Is this possible?” She considered it thoughtfully.

“I believe I mentioned in my letter that I am interested in offering my time to help in the post-slavery rehabilitation programme you are planning.” Harry nodded once.

“You did.”

“Then perhaps it will not be a problem as, should you be interested on taking me up on my offer, I would need to find a residence on this side of the Channel, for that. In that case, Tom would be able to floo to my house for instruction on a daily basis.” Harry nodded slowly.

“I know you offered your time pro bono, but perhaps we could offer you a board and lodging in compensation for your efforts?” he suggested. Lerouge smiled.

“That sound like an acceptable compromise,” she responded lightly. “Any other concerns about the apprenticeship? Price, perhaps?” Harry waved an impatient hand.

“Price is not important – as long as you ask a fair price for what you offer, I will be willing to pay it. No, I am more concerned about how much time this is likely to take up – Tom has responsibilities here at home that I am loath to release him from.” And that Tom would be loath to _be_ released from – the responsibilities he had at the house were part of his commitment to his master’s comfort and well-being. Should he give them up, he suspected he would lose the sense of his master’s needs being at the centre of his life, and he didn’t like that idea.

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement about a timetable which would be suitable,” the healer assured his master. Harry nodded slowly.

“Alright, then. Please send a letter over by owl detailing the programme of study you propose, the price, and the amount of time per day that you’d recommend he spends with you. We’ll talk about it and get back to you.” Tom was pretty sure applications for Masteries were generally done differently – normally the applicant was the one fitting in with the Master’s requirements rather than the other way around, but as always, his master had a tendency to buck the trend. That it seemed like he was going to be able to feed the hunger for knowledge that he had only recently rediscovered made his heart soar and his stomach feel like it was full of butterflies. Knowing that his learning would be able to benefit his master just added warmth into the mix.

“Very well,” Healer Lerouge accepted, seemingly unbothered by the strange negotiation she’d been part of. She stood, Harry and Tom following a moment later. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said politely, looking at Harry and then at Tom. “And for the information. I do hope that the apprenticeship goes ahead,” she ventured to say, surprising Tom – he hadn’t thought she’d be that blunt about it.

“We shall see,” Harry replied non-committedly. “Thank you for the offer regardless,” he continued, softening the previous statement. “We hope that you have a safe and _quick_ journey back home, even if it’s not too pleasant,” he commented with a smile. She flashed a small smile back at him, and Tom wondered whether it was some sort of in-joke. Not that they’d been around each other long enough to develop in-jokes, though he supposed they had been alone for a few minutes right at the start…

After a few more pleasantries, Healer Lerouge was stepping through the green flames and the house was theirs once more.

XXX

“Master,” Tom started, looking uncharacteristically nervous as he approached Harry’s desk and knelt at his feet.

“Yes?” asked Harry slightly warily – if Tom was nervous, that could easily mean that he had done something he felt was wrong.

“I’ve found an outside activity which interests me, and which I think could benefit us.”

“Oh?” asked Harry, turning slightly so he was fully facing Tom, glad that his concerns of this being a confession of sorts were unfounded. Still, his slave looked nervous and licked his lips, glancing away for a moment. “Hey,” Harry said softly, reaching out to stroke Tom’s cheek. “Just say it. The worst thing that could happen is I say ‘no’ – I’m not going to be angry with you, regardless.” At that, Tom looked back at him, and Harry was glad to see the resolve in his eyes.

“Aikido.” Harry blinked for a moment.

“Ai-what-now?” he asked, the word completely foreign to him.

“Aikido – it’s a martial art being offered at a local community centre.”

“A martial art?” Harry repeated, slightly dubiously. It wasn’t that he thought it was a _bad_ idea, it was just not something he had ever thought would be Tom’s choice. Then he remembered something Tom had said. “And you think it could benefit both of us?” Tom nodded.

“Unlike other martial arts, Aikido focuses on using the opponent’s momentum against them, rather than strikes which are inherently damaging. Although it would certainly be toeing the line of what a slave is permitted to do in public, my use of it in defence of you would be a lot more accepted than me casting magic or using a more aggressive style.”

“That’s…an interesting point,” Harry replied thoughtfully. He’d have to see a bit more of this in action before he’d be able to agree entirely with Tom, and risk the consequences in public, but he knew that Tom was perhaps _more_ invested in keeping Harry out of Azkaban than Harry was, so he was predisposed to trust what his slave was telling him. “I suppose it would be good exercise for you.” Tom nodded.

“That…” he hesitated for a moment, “and the fact that it’s also supposedly about harmonising energy and overcoming one’s inclinations towards violence.” Harry looked at his slave for a long moment, noting how the other avoided his gaze. Hmm, that was interesting. What with Tom recently choosing to take up a Mastery in the Mind Arts with a side specialism of mind healing, and now this…Harry had to wonder whether he was trying to do the absolute opposite of what he’d done for the last thirty, forty years.

“So why were you nervous about asking me?” he asked, choosing to move past that. “It sounds like a good club for you to get engaged in. Tom hesitated for a moment and then sighed, looking back up at Harry.

“It’s on Saturday nights,” he said bluntly. Ah. Harry saw the problem. Saturday nights had been special for a while, though they had taken on more meaning since their decision to properly engage in this relationship. Saturday nights were a time for them to relax together, or go out for a meal when neither of them was tired from the week.

“There’s no other time offered?” he asked. Tom shook his head. Harry sighed. “Well, I suppose we could shift our time together to Sunday night.” Tom stared at him. “What?”

“You’re agreeing?” He sounded incredulous. Harry raised his eyebrows as if in surprise.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Tom nodded. “Don’t be silly. I told you to find something outside the house that you wanted to do – you found something. It won’t be forever, but we can handle having Sunday night as a replacement for a time.” Tom still stared at him for a moment before bowing his head briefly.

“Thank you,” he said finally. Harry smiled at him.

“No problem.” Then a thought occurred to him. “What are you going to do about your collar?” Tom frowned at him.

“What do you mean?” he asked in confusion. Harry looked at him pointedly.

“When I did PE at school, the girls had to take off any necklaces as a precaution to avoid any chance of strangulation; I doubt you’d be allowed to wear one of your scarves during a martial arts lesson.”

“Ah,” Tom said in rueful comprehension. Harry could tell that he was questioning why he hadn’t thought of that. Biting his lip, Harry’s slave seemed to be trying to find a solution, but for once wasn’t succeeding. Another thought occurred.

“We haven’t tested whether either of us can use concealing charms on the collar since Lady Magic’s visit,” Harry started thoughtfully. “I wonder… Tom, cast a concealing charm on your collar,” he ordered abruptly. Obeying immediately, his own curiosity clear, Tom raised a hand to his collar and tapped it briefly.

“Has it worked?” he asked. Harry shook his head – the collar was still as obvious as always. “What if you try, master?” Tom suggested. Harry shrugged – it was worth a go. He wasn’t nearly as practised at concealing charms as Tom was, so he had to use both his wand and a verbal spell to make his attempt.

“Huh,” was all that he said a moment later. Tom raised an eyebrow at him in question. “It worked,” Harry explained. A moment later, he cancelled the charm, rather preferring the sight of his collar wrapped around Tom’s neck. He hadn’t realised how much he’d started to like it until, suddenly, all he could see was his slave’s bare skin.

“That’s interesting,” Tom replied thoughtfully. “I suppose that even with permission, me casting spells which would conceal the collar from you and others would be considered as unacceptable. Still, if you’re willing to cast the spell on me before I go out, Aikido should be possible.” Harry shrugged.

“Not a problem. Go sign up with the club and put any important information about it – like its venue, when it’s happening, and so on – on the fridge.” Nodding in acknowledgement, Tom summoned one of the books he kept in the room and settled more comfortably on his cushion as Harry got back to work.

XXX

“I passed!” Tom became aware of his master’s presence in the house at the jubilant shout that rang through the corridors of number 12 Grimmauld Place. A moment later, the man himself came careering into the kitchen, pulling Tom down into a hot kiss by the D-ring on his collar before he could react in any way. By the time he pulled away, Tom was feeling a bit dazed, and he could see lust rising in his master’s eyes.

“You passed?” Tom repeated, his voice slightly thick with his own arousal. Harry grinned brightly.

“The Auror recruitment. I passed – I’ll be a proper Auror trainee next year!”

“Congratulations,” Tom told him, a smile curling at his own lips. “I never doubted that you’d succeed, but well done all the same.” It was true – of all the Auror trainees, his master had seemed one of the most suited to the role.

“Thanks,” Harry replied, a faint blush coming to his cheeks.

“There are some other results which arrived today too,” Tom told his master, a mischievous look no doubt obvious in his eyes. Harry looked confused for a moment and then realisation dawned, along with an expression which looked half-excited, half-fearful.

“Do you mean….?” He trailed off and Tom nodded his head. Holding up a hand, he summoned the envelope which had arrived earlier that day. Holding it out, his master took it with a slightly shaking hand. Turning it over, Harry’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of the unbroken seal. “You haven’t looked at them?” he asked almost incredulously, looking up at his slave. Tom felt almost insulted.

“Of course not,” he disdained. “They’re your results, not mine.” Harry gave him a crooked grin, shrugging his shoulders a little.

“Given how much you taught me over the last year…and how a good portion of what I learned before that was as a result of having to stay alive despite your efforts to make me otherwise, I would say that you played a big portion in whatever scores I have.” Slightly discomforted by the casual mention of their rancorous past, Tom just shrugged. Harry searched his expression for a moment later, and then turned his attention back to his letter, breaking the seal with fingers that were no longer shaking. Maybe that was why Harry had raised the past? To remind himself that he had faced things a lot worse than the potential of having failed a few exams. Not that Tom thought he would have done so anyway, but….

Harry froze, staring at the letter. Tom almost couldn’t contain his impatience, and when Harry stretched out his hand with the letter as an offering to him, he couldn’t resist snatching it away. Scanning the results, he raised his eyebrows in surprise. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought his master would do well; it’s just that he didn’t realise he’d do _this_ well. Outstandings for Transfiguration, Charms and (of course) Defence against the Dark Arts, and an Exceeds Expectations for Potions. Impressive. He said as much to his master, his tone genuine and congratulatory. Harry shrugged a little self-consciously.

“I mean,” he explained at Tom’s frown because of his subdued excitement, “it’s a lot better than I thought I’d get, sure. But…I bet you got, like, twelve NEWTs, all of them Outstanding.” Tom raised a slightly supercilious eyebrow, thinking his master was being ridiculous.

“Twelve NEWTs, all taken at once, is pretty much impossible without a time-turner,” he informed Harry. “As a matter of fact, I had eight NEWTs subjects. And yes, I did achieve Outstandings in them, but consider the fact that I had a relatively normal Hogwarts experience, unlike yours,” he replied pointedly. If Harry was going to make references to their difficult pasts together in order to prove a point, why shouldn’t he? Harry shrugged a little, still looking away. “Come on, Harry,” Tom coaxed. “You’ve done very well in your exams, at the same time as getting into Auror training. If you want to do more NEWTs later, you can do it as a self-study programme.” Finally, Harry seemed to get out of his little funk.

“That’s true,” he murmured, looking a bit brighter. “It’s not like I’ve been focusing on my studies, is it? Not entirely, anyway.” A smile coming back to his face, he looked up at Tom, his eyes sparkling once more. “How far are you with dinner?”

“Not far enough that it can’t become tomorrow’s dinner,” answered Tom, understanding immediately why he asked the question.

“Excellent. Then do what you need to do and meet me in the sitting room wearing some nice clothes – we’re going out to celebrate!” Tom couldn’t have said no, even if he wanted to, Harry’s excitement once more infectious.

And later, sitting in the muggle restaurant, diners happily chatting around them, tasty food on their plates, when Harry suggested that they perhaps go away for a couple of weeks, somewhere outside the country, Tom equally couldn’t disagree. It wasn’t the fact that the slave Code of Conduct only applied in Britain that gave voice to his quick assent; in fact, it was because he felt an answering desire rise within him to share some of the marvels he had discovered on his world tour all those years ago, to share the marvels with _Harry_.

XXX

Theodore Nott stood in the atrium of a large house. Not a mansion, but a part of his mind was absently wondering whether this had once been part of a supporter’s estate before it was sold off at his or her enslavement. Another part of his mind was marvelling over the fact that he could officially call himself ‘Theodore Nott’ once more. Not dog. Not slave. Not any of those derisive, insulting names he had been forced to answer to for the last two years. One hand lifted without his permission to rub at his neck, at the stretch of skin which felt oddly sensitive without its encircling band. It had never been physically too tight, but every day of his enslavement, it had felt like it was choking him.

Still, as he looked around at the group of people he stood with, he had to grimly acknowledge that he hadn’t had it half as bad as some others. Smith had been a bastard, a bully with the knowledge that he could do whatever he wanted to his slave, and he wouldn’t have to face any consequences, but he had never been the most _imaginative_ of victimisers. His tactics had been primarily restricted to humiliation and physical pain – he hadn’t had the dubious ingenuity to attempt mental or emotional harm. Not like Theo had seen happen to slaves who had come with their masters to visit the influential Smith heir. Not like what he could observe of at least two of the former slaves near him.

One looked completely shut down, his body still enough to make him wonder if he was still alive, his eyes staring blankly at the floor. The other was actually someone Theo recognised, and it sent a shudder of horror and empathetic disquiet through him to see one of his classmates brought so low. Pansy Parkinson was a shadow of her former self, tucking herself into the corner and trembling if anyone even looked in her direction. He had passed near her on his entrance into the room and had heard the muted whimpers emerging animal-like from her throat.

Theo recognised a few people in the room with him. There was a surprising number – perhaps twenty, perhaps thirty. But maybe it was not so surprising – it had been made clear that their sentences were based on loyal service above the age of seventeen: everyone Theo recognised had taken the Mark at the same time he had. At the time he had agreed with his father that taking it was a good idea – the Dark Lord was clearly winning; it was time for them to commit to his side before he actually clinched victory, so that they would benefit. No doubt other families had made similar decisions. Of course, that’s not what happened, and instead all it had led to was their downfall – the destruction of their family and the complete annihilation of their inheritance. It would take generations to rebuild the power and influence Theo should have had, if it was possible at all.

He cursed the day he’d taken the Mark, had cursed it every day of his enslavement. He had blamed his father, Harry Potter, the Dark Lord…but in the end he had cursed himself. He had been a Slytherin, a proud member of the house of the cunning and ambitious. Yet, he had let himself be led by his father, led into following another blindly, and he had been led to ruin. And now he had another chance, ironically provided by the one whose hands had orchestrated his initial downfall.

The Smiths had returned him to the Ministry the day before his collar was due to come off, the countdown on the front making it plain when that was: from two years to a year; from a year to six months; from six months counting down to one; from one month, counting down the days. At midnight on that final day, the band had suddenly disappeared. No fanfare, no lights; just there one moment and gone the next. Theo had been expecting to feel different, to feel some sort of lightening, but he didn’t.

He almost hadn’t believed it was gone; had had to test it. When the guard had arrived the next morning, Theo had deliberately disobeyed his order to stand up. He hadn’t been punished, and that was when he had felt it – the sudden wave of relief, an emotion so strong it had made his eyes tear up, and sobs tear themselves from his throat. Fortunately, the guard had obviously had experience with this before and had allowed him his breakdown, waiting impatiently for him to calm down.

Eventually, he had ordered Theo to come to the door of the cell. Unforced by the collar, but driven by his eagerness to finally put all this behind him, he had obeyed. The guard had taken him to a room where he had been given a set of clothes – shabby and worn, clearly second-hand, but far better than he had been given throughout the whole of his sentence. He had then been given a few galleons and a thin leaflet, and subsequently shown the door. It was only when he was standing outside the Ministry, a pile of clothes clutched between his hands, that the realisation had hit him – he was free…and he had no idea of where to go.

He had had no wand, no family, no house, no friends…. Everything he owned had been there, in his hands. A set of clothes and twenty galleons – enough for a wand and a night at a cheap lodging, or a few nights cheap lodging if he didn’t go to Ollivander’s. With shaking hands he had quickly dressed himself in a side alley, and then had looked at the leaflet. And there he had found what he hoped to be his salvation – a charitable enterprise set up to support newly-released slaves to find their way in the Wizarding World once more. And so he had visited the office listed in the leaflet, and had been told to report here, to this place which looked like it had once belonged to someone else, to someone who was now a slave.

If he hadn’t known this was something to do with Harry Potter from the leaflet, he would know now, from one of the people now filing into the room, to stand on the wide staircase leading out of the atrium. Theo’s eyes narrowed in hatred at the man who had caused all of this, who looked less than worse-for-wear at his experience of slavery so far, despite the black band still wrapped around that slim throat. How Theo wished he could wrap his own hands around that pale column and _squeeze_ … He drew himself out of his homicidal thoughts as a stern-faced woman at the front started to speak.

“Welcome to Second Chances House. I am Agnes Nutter, the director of this establishment,” she started, her voice fairly neutral. “I am going to assume that you are all here because you wish to make a new start on life, to put your past behind you. We are here to help you with that. There are a number of services you can take advantage of. If you need help finding a job, we can assist you. If you are suffering from trauma, we can assist you.” Here, she tilted her head towards a dark-skinned woman standing off to one side – the woman behind whom was standing the enslaved, former Dark Lord. About that – Theo had thought that the man was supposed to be Harry Potter’s slave. He was pretty sure that had been true at the Ministry ball a little over a year ago. Unless something had changed…. Theo, his eyes suddenly widening, hoped that what he was suspecting wasn’t true. “If you need more education to stand a better chance of making a career for yourself, we have advisors and options available for you.

“However, we also have some expectations.” _Of course_ , thought Theo bitterly. Nothing was ever given for free. “We expect everyone to be treated with respect while within these walls. Human or non-human; slave or free.” Was it just Theo or was there an extra emphasis on the ‘slave’? His suspicions were confirmed with her next words. “This is a place of second chances for everyone, and so we do not expect old grudges, rivalries, or angers to be revived. If you have an issue with someone in the House, regardless of who they are, we expect you to speak to a member of staff about it rather than taking retaliation into your own hands. Don’t forget that everyone here is a volunteer, and that you are also here on a voluntary basis – should you find the services we offer not to be to your liking, you are at full liberty to leave.” _In short_ , Theo concluded, _if you don’t want to fit in, push off_. His lips pressed together in disapproval.

It wasn’t entirely unexpected, and he had honestly moved far beyond the pureblood heir he had been at Hogwarts, believing that the world _owed_ him something because of his birth. It was still disappointing, that even here there were strings attached. But then he thought about his other option: attempting to take whatever job he could get to stop himself from starving – finding, no doubt, that his lack of education past Hogwarts, his lack of experience and his previous status of ‘slave’ stood against him in pursuit of any decent position. No, he _needed_ this, he _needed_ what this place had to offer, as much as he hated having to admit it. And honestly, being required to treat everyone with respect wasn’t _that_ much of a price, not even with _him_ included.

Theodore listened as the woman, Madame Nutter, continued to explain what would happen for the rest of that day – signing an agreement to follow the rules of the place, having the services offered explained and making some preliminary choices, having a tour and being given a room – and then followed the staff member who took them to another room. There was a pile of agreements on the desk near the door, which were given out to them one by one along with a quill, and a number of other desks with staff members scattered around the room. Almost all the staff members who had been on the stairs were stationed at various desks, each one with a sign on the front presumably identifying the service offered. Theo’s suspicions from earlier were unfortunately confirmed as he saw the dark-skinned woman sitting behind a desk reading ‘Mind Healer’…and _he_ was standing behind her.

A staff member came up to Theo. She was shorter than him, with a pleasant, welcoming smile on her face.

“Hi there, I’m Janice. Do you have any questions?” she asked, the friendly tone of her voice making Theo relax slightly in reflex – it had been so long since he had heard anything _friendly_ directed at him…. He bit his lip, wondering whether to voice the question which had been burning inside him ever since he saw that figure standing on the stairs. In the end, he asked something else, similar, but less likely to get him thrown out on the first day.

“Just one for now,” he said, smiling back at her, the muscles in his face feeling stiff as they moved in ways they were no longer accustomed to. “When Madame Nutter talked about respect to all…was she including _him_ in it?” he asked, tilting his head towards the dark-haired, red-eyed figure lounging against the wall behind the mind healer. Janice followed his movement, frowning a little as she tried to decipher his question. Then, her eyes alighting on the slave, her expression cleared.

“Ah, Tom,” she said in understanding. “You needn’t worry on that front – he’s perfectly safe, I promise. Mr Potter has assured us that he won’t cause any trouble, and in the six months he’s been working here, it’s been completely true.” That wasn’t what Theo had meant, although the answer _had_ raised more questions.

“Why is he here?” Theo asked her. “If Harry Potter is still his master, then why is he here, without him?” Finishing his question, the former slave realised with embarrassment how confusing it might sound. Fortunately, Janice seemed to understand. She shrugged a little.

“He’s doing an apprenticeship with Mind Healer Lerouge, so he’s here as part of that.” Janice shrugged again as if to deny comprehension about the whys and wherefores of the situation; merely acceptance. Theo couldn’t help staring at her for a moment, and then at the former Dark Lord. An apprenticeship? An _apprenticeship_? While he had been humiliated and abused by Smith, while Pansy had been brutalised to the point that she couldn’t even _look_ at anyone, while so many of his classmates had been used and _destroyed_ , the _bastard_ who had caused all this was being given an opportunity that so many free people were unable to access?

Fighting his anger, he forced himself to pull that blank mask over his features that had served him so well in the last two years, the lack of reaction which had made Smith become bored of his play so much quicker. Janice obviously misinterpreted his expression, as she continued speaking with a hint of concern. “If you don’t wish to have him in the room during your healing sessions, I know Healer Lerouge won’t force the issue – there have been a number of people who have opted for that. I can completely understand – although he’s always been charming when I’ve spoken to him, the knowledge of who he _was_ ….” She shuddered a little.

“Isn’t it…odd?” Theo started delicately, having finally wrestled his emotions under control. “To have a slave pursuing a Mastery?” Janice shrugged again.

“I suppose, but since Tom will never be free, I guess Mr Potter sees him as an investment or something. Although, how many people would be likely to go to the man who used to be You-Know-Who for mind healing, even if he _is_ a Master in it….” And that acted like a bucket of cold water over Theo’s still burning anger: while he still rankled at the idea that the man who had caused so much suffering – as much to his allies as to his enemies – seemed to have fallen with his bum in the butter, the knowledge that his slavery would be for the rest of his life…it seemed a fitting punishment.

Hours later, the agreement signed, his initial decisions on what services to avail himself of, and his outlook finally improving after the dismal plunge it had taken on the steps outside the Ministry, Theo happened to witness Potter collecting his slave. It was pure chance – he had just been passing the atrium on the way to the garden, longing to spend some time outside after having been kept indoors for so long, when he had seen Potter enter the main doors. He had found himself pausing in the shadows to the side, taking a moment to inspect the boy…man who he had considered an enemy to ‘his’ side for so long.

He looked good. Strong, powerful, his whole body held in a confident pose. Worlds different from the scrawny boy he had been at Hogwarts, and different again from the battle-weary warrior he had caught a glimpse of in the final battle. No, this was a Potter who knew and was comfortable with his place in the world. The man paused in the atrium, unmoving. Theo wondered what he was doing there; whether he was just expecting someone to know he was there and to appear.

Apparently he was: a few minutes later, the door at the top of the staircase opened and Theo saw the lithe figure of the former Dark Lord moving hurriedly through and down the stairs. He dropped gracefully to his knees in front of Potter, not a hint of hesitation there, his head bowed.

“Master,” Theo heard him say, no anger, no defiance, just willing submission and…pleasure? Potter reached out and ran his hand through his slave’s dark hair, petting him like an animal. Instead of pulling away in hatred, or tensing up as he endured a despised touch, the older man _leaned_ into the caress, his expression nothing but enjoyment. Theo’s stomach did a flip in discomfort. Maybe he had been too hasty in his assumptions that _he_ was living the high life just because he’d been allowed to take an apprenticeship: the thought of what he must have gone through to make the man who had been the Dark Lord become _this_ …. Lost in his thoughts, Theo missed Potter’s response, and was only aware of the younger man turning and heading towards the door, his slave scrambling to his feet and hurrying after him, walking a pace behind him like a good dog.

As the door shut behind them, Theo found that there was an unfamiliar emotion filling his throat. Pity. Perhaps the Dark Lord had the worst punishment of them all – bound for the rest of his life to his prophesised enemy, a man who appeared to have done exactly as the prophecy said. Harry Potter had vanquished the Dark Lord. He had turned the man into his personal pet…and by all appearances, the man _liked_ it. With a shudder, Theo forced himself not to think about what kind of tortures he’d gone through to be twisted into becoming _that_.

XXX

**Epilogue**

“Do you, Harry James Potter, swear to uphold the rule of Law, and the tenants of Justice in all your dealings?”

“I do.” Tom, standing in a corner, hidden by a notice-me-not, couldn’t help the pride that shivered through him at the confident, serious tone of his Master. Harry was standing on the stage which had been constructed near the elevators in the Ministry atrium for just this purpose – it wasn’t every day that a new Head Auror was inducted, after all, so it was unsurprising that there was a sense of ceremony to the whole event. Not to mention, of course, that Harry was both the Man-who-Conquered, never having managed to be rid of that title, to his private irritation and Tom’s amusement, and the youngest at twenty-nine to take on the responsibilities of the Auror department.

“Do you swear to treat all denizens of this land with fairness and impartiality?”

“I do.”

Not that he didn’t deserve it: there was no doubt that he did. After completing his Auror training, he had gone on to set records for the number of cases solved, as well as the speed at which he succeeded in the average case. Tom felt some pride at being part of that success – although most of it was directly due to Harry’s stubbornness, tenacity, and sheer unwillingness to give up, as well as the skills he had painstakingly developed, Tom did feel like he had contributed. As a dual Master of the Mind Arts and, more recently gained, Master of Warding and Curse-breaking, as well as having well-rounded knowledge in a vast number of areas, Harry had consulted with him on numerous occasions when he had been stuck.

Knowing that he was able to help his Master; that he was able to contribute to their shared life was a not-so-secret joy of Tom’s – a warm feeling that had rooted itself within him and helped him get through the times which were not so enjoyable. There were times when he felt the weight of the collar around his neck like a millstone, and time when he wondered if he had done the wrong thing, choosing slavery under Harry’s hand over freedom. Those times were few and far in between, though, and the frequency was lessening even more as the years went on, and he settled further into the enduring peace which his slavery brought him.

“Do you swear that your loyalty is to the Ministry and none other?” Tom winced – Harry had not been happy to see that as part of the oath he had to swear, and he had thought he had managed to convince the Master of Ceremonies to take it out. There was a pause before Harry answered, and the sudden change in rhythm had a small susurrus travelling around the room as people whispered to their neighbours. Tom just kept his eyes on his Master, though, trusting that, after all their discussions, he would be able to come up with something that was appropriate.

“I swear that as long as the Ministry keeps faith with _all_ its citizens, my loyalty shall be unquestionable.” A small smirk broke out on Tom’s face as everyone was shocked into silence. _Well done, Master_ , Tom thought smugly. The Master of Ceremonies stared at Harry for a moment, surprised by his response, but then coughed to try to disguise that he’d been taken aback at all. Clearly fumbling to remember the next part, he finally managed to catch onto the thread of his speech once more.

But what else could they expect? Even as an Auror, Harry, along with Tom and the rest of the campaign group which had only grown, had been fighting for the rights of the disenfranchised and downtrodden for years. And that had brought them into conflict with people in the Ministry and government more than once. Never illegally, never in a way that could be considered as unacceptable, but in a way that was like sand pouring through a timer – unable to be pushed back, or ultimately to be resisted.

Not just the slaves, for all that had been their initial purpose, but the cause of werewolves, house elves, vampires, squibs, orphans… The list went on. Tom sometimes marvelled at how they had managed to achieve so many of the things he had wanted to change as a young man, before he had allowed his course to be perverted by his madness and fury.

There were very few slaves still in the public domain. Although some of that was because Voldemort hadn’t had that many followers who had been loyal for more than ten years, not all of it was. Most were now owned by the Ministry and had been put to work in a various number of places, but all overseen by Hermione Granger’s department which watched for abuse with a hawk’s eyes. The campaign group had succeeded in bringing into force a number of regulations which either made owning a slave rather unpalatable – not enough benefit for the inconvenience – or had led to confiscations of slaves from those masters who disobeyed.

To sweeten the bitter pill, the Ministry had offered a buy-back scheme, supported with donations from the Second Chances fund – a charity which had taken off after the establishment of the halfway house, and was now one of the most popular funds for aspiring politicians to contribute to. Tom had been rather impressed by the PR campaign that Blaise Zabini had run, and the benefits were still being reaped – the main point had been that the fund wasn’t _only_ for former slaves, but for anyone who had been disadvantaged by life, or by circumstances.

The number of services offered by the fund had exploded – wolfsbane potion for werewolves who couldn’t afford it every month, blood donors for vampires who didn’t fancy breaking the law to survive, support programs put in place for abuse survivors to help them come to terms with their experience, and move past into a new future… Tom felt like he had been part of something great, and that he continued to be a part of it.

He realised he had rather lost track of the ceremony, so paid attention once more. Ducking his head, Tom’s Master allowed Minister Fairgold to place the ceremonial chain of office around his neck, the attached pendant hanging low on his chest. Then, turning to the audience, she spoke in her trademark unruffled tone.

“Good people of Wizarding Britain, I give you Harry Potter, Head Auror.” Tom clapped along with the others, restraining himself from shouting or whistling as some other uncouth individuals chose to do. Harry looked over the crowd, a small, polite smile touching his lips. Then, his emerald eyes locking with crimson orbs – because of course the notice-me-not charm was as nothing to his Master – real pleasure turned that polite expression into something more genuine. Standing there, knowing that in the crowd, his face was the only one Harry truly saw sent a frisson of pleasure through Tom. He dipped his head in respect to the man. To the Master of his life, and of his heart. And he knew that there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.
> 
> For now, at least. I am planning on at least a set of outtakes to be written later. At the moment, stories lined up for that fic will be Severus' and Kingsley's relationship, Harry's birthday at the Weasleys, various moments from Harry and Tom's life, and then whatever else occurs. If there's something you'd like to see in it, leave a comment and, if I'm inspired, I'll write it. That said, I doubt any of them will be written any time soon, so if you're interested in these, subscribe to the series and you'll be notified when I post the work. 
> 
> I also have some ideas for a sequel, and a couple of scenes that I definitely want to write. So, that might also happen at some point long in the future. 
> 
> Other than that, thanks again for joining me on this wonderful ride! And if you have been inspired to write slave!Tom fanfic, please link me :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [happy life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25763557) by [Mediatruck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mediatruck/pseuds/Mediatruck)
  * [Shopping accident](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26139193) by [Lady_Rosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Rosa/pseuds/Lady_Rosa)




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